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THE  BOOK 


British  Ballads 


EDITED  BY 


S.  C.  HALL 


WITH  HLUSTRATIONS 

AFTER  DESIGNS  BY  QRESWICK,  GILBERT,  AND  OTHERS 


NEW   YORK  AND    LONDON 

G.    P.    PUTNAM'S    SONS 

Ube  TRnicfterbocftcr  ipress 

1888 


Press  of 
P.  Putnam's  Sons 
New    York 


INTRODUCTION. 


Mr,  S.  C.  Hall,  the  editor  of  this  collection  of  British  Ballads,  gave 
a  two-page  introduction  to  each  selection.  These  introductions  have 
been  abridged  for  the  present  edition.  The  source,  both  immediate 
and  remote,  of  the  poems,  approximate  date  of  their  composition, 
historical  foundation,  if  any  were  to  be  found,  and  the  names  of  the 
authors,  when  known,  have  been  given.  Comparisons  with  more 
or  less  kindred  ballads,  and  all  historical  or  legendary  matter 
merely  suggested  by,  but  not  vital  to,  the  subject  of  the  poem,  have 
been  omitted. 

The  first  person  in  England  who  called  attention  to  ballad  litera- 
ture and  who  published  an  important  modem  collection  was 
Thomas  Percy,  Bishop  of  Dromore  (1728 — 181 1),  An  old  MS.  of  bal- 
lads came  into  his  possession,  which  he  published  in  addition  to 
some  others  found  in  the  libraries  of  Cambridge,  Oxford,  and  the 
British  Museum.  This  volume,  "  Reliques  of  Ancient  Romance 
Poetry,"  has  been  the  main  fountain-head  for  all  subsequent  collec- 
tions. Besides  this,  Mr.  Hall  is  mainly  indebted  to  Sir  Walter 
Scott's  "  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border,"  and  Wm.  Motherwell's 
"Minstrelsy,  Ancient  and  Modern."  Scott  published  in  his  book 
many  songs  which  had  been  handed  down  by  word  of  mouth. 
Many  valuable  and  interesting  ballads,  never  before  printed,  were 
obtained  from  a  Mrs.  Brown  of  Falkland.  Her  aunt,  Mrs.  Farquhar, 
had  spent  the  best  part  of  her  life  in  Braemar,  near  the  source  of  the 
Dee,  among  flocks  and  herds.     She  possessed  a  most  retentive 


fntro&uction 


memory,  and  remembered  all  the  songs  and  tales  she  had  heard  in 
that  sequestered  part  of  the  country.  :Mrs.  Brown,  the  child  of  Mr, 
Gordon,  never  forgot  these  tales  thus  related  to  her  in  childhood, 
and  her  nephew,  Professor  Scott,  of  Aberdeen,  took  down  many 
banads  from  her  recitation.  I^ter  the  editor  of  "Border  Min- 
strelsy "  took  down  many  more. 

In  all  poems  of  this  class  much  is  left  to  be  inferred.  The  tale 
nearly  always  begins  in  medias  res.  To  explain  this  it  must  be 
remembered  that  they  were  composed  essentially  for  recitation,  and 
the  minstrels  were  in  the  habit  of  making  long  introductions  and  in- 
terpolations between  the  verses,  which  described  in  detail  all  that  the 
poet  had  not  fully  explained.  The  different  versions  are  not  always 
due  to  variance  in  relation,  but  sometimes  to  the  fact  that  one  event 
was  narrated  by  several  bards.  Certain  phrases  or  couplets  occur 
again  and  again  in  ballads  composed  at  long  intervals  of  time.  The 
old  bards  had  no  scruples  about  plagiarizing,  and  if  they  remem- 
bered some  lines  descriptive  of  an  event  similar  to  the  subject  in 
hand,  they  adopted  them  without  change. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

Introduction iii 

Chevy-Chasej J 

tHEi  CHII.DREN   IN    THE)  WoOD  .  .  .  .II 

Fair  Rosamond j^ 

The  Demon  Lover 25 

The  Nut-Brown  Maid 29 

Kempion ^j 

The  Chii,d  of  E1.1.E 45 

The  Twa  Brothers 53 

The  Beggar's  Daughter 57 

Robin  Goodeei,i.ow yc 

Sir  Patrick  Spens 70 

Gii,  MoRRicE    .         .         .         .        .        .        .        .8^ 

Sir  Ai^dingar oj 

Sir  IvAncei<ot  du  Lake 99 

King  Arthur's  Death    ......  105 

The  Heire  of  Linne      .        .        .        .        .        .113 

Lord  Souws j2i 


Contents 


"W11.LIAM 


Lord  Thomas  and  Fair  Annet 

Fause  Foodrage 

Genevieve 

Fair  Margaret  and  Sweet 

The  Birth  of  St.  George 

The  Mermaid    . 

Lord  Ui,i,in's  Daughter 

Sir  AG11.THORN 

Johnie  of  Breadislee    . 

The  Dowie  Dens  of  Yarrow 

The  Bonnie  Bairns 

Gl,ENFINI,AS 

The  Gay  Goss-Hawk 
Colin  and  Lucy 
Katharine  Janfarie 

RUDIGER      . 

The  Eve  of  St.  John 

Barthram's  Dirge 

Sir  Caui,ine 

Ruth  .... 

Robin  Hood  and  Guy  of  Gisborne 

Robin  Hood's  Death  and  Buriai, 

Sir  James  the  Rose 

The  Clerk's  Twa  Sons 

Sir  Andrew  Barton 

Frennet  Hall 

King  Estmere 

The  Cruel  Sister 

Fair  Helen 


Contentg 


Thej  Luck  of  Eden  Hai^i, 316 

Lady  Anne  Bothwei.i.'s  Lament         .        .        .324 

AUI.D  Robin  Gray 328 

B1.FINI.AND  WuD 334 

The  Twa  Corbies 34o 

Hengist  and  May 342 

Appendix 349 

Gi^ossARY 367 


tTNIVERSlTY 


•  See  Appendix. 


Gbcv^*Cbace 


'm-r^^' 


The  stout  Erie  of  Northumberland 

A  vow  to  God  did  make, 
His  pleasure  in  the  Scottish  woods 

Three  summer  days  to  take  ; 

The  cheefest  harts  in  Chevy-Chace 
To  kill  and  beare  away. 
'^,>.      These  tydings  to  Erie  Douglas  came, 
' "  In  Scottland  where  he  lay : 

"Who  sent  Erie  Percy  present  word, 

He  wold  prevent  his  sport. 
The  English  Erie,  not  fearing  that, 

Did  to  the  woods  resort. 

With  fifteen  hundred  bow-men  bold : 

All  chosen  men  of  might, 
Who  knew  fuU  well  in  time  of  neede 

To  ayme  their  shafts  arright. 

The  gallant  greyhounds  swiftly  ran, 

To  chase  the  fallow  deere  : 
On  Munday  they  began  to  hunt, 

When  day-light  did  appeare  ; 

And  long  before  high  noone  they  had 
An  hundred  fat  buckes  slaine  ; 

Then  having  dined,  the  drovyers  went 
To  rouze  the  deere  againe. 

The  bow-men  mustered  on  the  hills. 

Well  able  to  endure  ; 
And  all  their  reare,  with  speciall  care. 

That  day  was  guarded  sure. 

The  hounds  ran  swiftly  through  the  woo 

The  nimble  deere  to  take. 
That  with  their  cryes  the  hills  and  dales 

An  eccho  shrill  did  make. 


Cbevi5*Cbace 


I^ord  Percy  to  the  quarry  went. 
To  view  the  slaughter'd  deere  ; 

Quoth  he,  "  Erie  Douglas  promised 
This  day  to  meet  me  heere  : 

"  But  if  I  thought  he  wold  not  come, 

Noe  longer  wold  I  stay." 
With  that,  a  brave  younge  gentleman 

Thus  to  the  Erie  did  say  : 

"I<oe,  yonder  doth  Erie  Douglas  come, 

His  men  in  armour  bright ; 
Full  twenty  hundred  Scottish  speres 

All  marching  in  our  sight ; 

"All  men  of  pleasant  Tivydale, 
Fast  by  the  river  Tweede  "  :         [said, 

"Then  cease  your  sports,"  Erie  Percy 
"And  take  yourbowes  with  speede  : 

"  And  now  with  me,  my  countrymen, 
Your  courage  forth  advance  ; 

For  never  was  there  champion  yett. 
In  Scottland  or  in  France, 

"That  ever  did  on  horsebacke  come. 

But  if  my  hap  it  were, 
I  durst  encounter  man  for  man, 

With  him  to  break  a  spere." 

Erie  Douglas  on  his  milke-.white  steede, 

Most  like  a  baron  bold. 
Rode  foremost  of  his  company. 

Whose  armour  shone  like  gold. 

"  Show  me,"  sayd  hee,  "whose  men  you 
That  hunt  soe  boldly  heere,  [bee, 

That,  without  my  consent,  do  chase 
And  kill  my  fallow-deere.' 


(IbcP5«Cbacc 


The  first  man  that  did  answer  make 
Was  noble  Percy  hee  •  ' 

And  thus  m  rage  did  say  :  ' 

"^re  thus  I  will  out-braved  bee. 
One  of  us  two  shall  dye  • 

I  know  thee  well,  an  erle  thou  art. 
I^rdPer,:y,soeaml.  ' 

"But  trust  me.  Percy,  pitty^  it  were 
And  great  offence  to  kill  ' 

Anyoftheseourguiltlessemen. 
For  they  have  done  no  ill. 

"I^tthouandlthebatteUtrye, 
And  set  our  men  aside" 

Accux^t  bee  he.'-:erle  Percy  sayd. 
Bywhomethisisdenyed.'' 

Withenngton  was  his  name 
ToSn;:''"°J'^°^^--^t'toId 
io  Henry  our  king  for  shame. 

You  two  bee  erl^^  »         .  U, 
^.la  I  have  power  to  stand' 


Cbev^sCbacc 


Our  English  archers  bent  their  bowes, 
Their  hearts  were  good  and  trew  ; 

Att  the  first  flight  of  arrowes  sent, 
Full  four-score  Scots  they  slew. 

Yet  bides  Erie  Douglas  on  the  bent, 
As  chieftain  stout  and  good ; 

As  valiant  captain,  all  unmov'd 
The  shock  he  firmly  stood. 

His  host  he  parted  had  in  three. 
As  leader  ware  and  try'd  ; 

And  soon  his  spearmen  on  their  foes 
Bare  down  on  every  side. 

Throughout  the  English  archery 
They  dealt  full  many  a  wound  : 

But  still  our  valiant  Englishmen 
All  firmly  kept  their  ground  : 

And  throwing  strait  their  bowes  away. 
They  grasp 'd  their  swords  so  bright : 

And  now  sharp  blows,  a  heavy  shower. 
On  shields  and  helmets  light.* 

They  closed  full  fast  on  everye  side, 
Noe  slacknes  there  was  found ; 

And  many  a  gallant  gentleman 
I^ay  gasping  on  the  ground. 

*  The  four  preceding  stanzas,  taken  chiefly  from  the  old  ballad,  were  introduced  by 
Dr.  Percy,  in  lieu  of  the  following  stanza  :— 

"  To  drive  the  deere  with  hounde  and  home, 
Douglas  bade  on  the  bent ; 
Two  captaines  moved  with  mickle  might, 
Their  speres  to  shivers  went." 
These  lines  are,  as  Dr.  Percy  states,  "confused  and  obscure,"— and  seriously  inter- 
rupt the  progress  of  the  story.    Tlie  black-letter  copies,  in  the  British  Museum  and 
the  Pepysian  Library,  instead  of  "  twp  captaines,"  have  "a  captain:  "    and  "the 
Spere,"  in  lieu  of  "their  speres,"  r        .  ^         .v 


GbcvB*Cbacc 


0  Christ !  it  was  a  griefe  to  see. 
How  each  one  chose  his  spere, 

And  how  the  blood  out  of  their  brests 
Did  gush  like  water  cleere. 

At  last  these  two  stout  erles  did  meet, 
Like  captaines  of  great  might : 

Like  lyons  wode,  they  layd  on  lode, 
And  made  a  cruell  fight : 

They  fought  untill  they  both  did  sweat, 
"With  swords  of  tempered  Steele ; 

Until  the  blood,  like  drops  of  rain, 
They  trickling  downe  did  feele. 

:')     "  Yeeld  thee,  Lord  Percy,"  Douglas  sayd ; 
"In  faith  I  will  thee  bringe. 
Where  thou  shalt  high  advanced  bee 
By  James  our  Scottish  king  : 

"  Thy  ransome  I  will  freely  give, 

And  this  rejwrt  of  thee. 
Thou  art  the  most  couragious  knight, 

That  ever  I  did  see." 

'■  Noe,  Douglas,"  quoth  Erie  Percy  then, 
"  Thy  proffer  I  doe  scome  ; 

1  will  not  yeelde  to  anj-  Scott, 
That  ever  yett  was  borne." 

With  that,  there  came  an  arrow  keene 

Out  of  an  English  bow, 
Which  struck  Erie  Douglas  to  the  heart, 

A  deepe  and  deadlye  blow  : 

Who  never  spake  more  words  than  these, 
"  Fight  on,  my  merry  men  all ; 

For  why,  my  life  is  at  an  end  ; 
Lord  Percy  sees  my  felL" 


Cbcvi2*Cbace 


Then  leaving  life,  Erie  Percy  tooke 

The  dead  man  by  the  hand  ; 
And  said  :  "  Erie  Douglas  for  thy  life 

Wold  I  had  lost  my  land. 

"  o  Christ  1  my  verry  heart  doth  bleed 

With  sorrow  for  thy  sake  ; 
For  sure  a  more  redoubted  knight 

Mischance  did  never  take. 

A  knight  amongst  the  Scotts  there  was, 

Which  saw  Erie  Douglas  dye, 
Who  streight  in  wrath  did  vow  revenge 

upon  the  Erie  Percy  : 
Sir  Hugh  Mountgomery  was  he  call'd, 

Who,  with  a  spere  full  bright 
well-mounted  on  a  gallant  steed, 
Ran  fiercely  through  the  fight ; 

And  past  the  English  archers  all. 

Without  a  dread  or  feare; 
And  through  Erie  Percy's  body  then 

He  thrust  his  hatefuU  spere  ; 
With  such  vehement  force  and  might 

He  did  his  body  gore, 
The  staff  ran  through  the  other  side 

A  large  cloth-yard,  and  more. 
So  thus  did  both  these  nobles  dye, 

Whose  courage  none  could  staine  : 
An  English  archer  then  perceiv'd 

The  noble  erle  was  slame  ; 

He  had  a  bow  bent  in  his  hand, 

Made  of  a  trusty  tree; 
An  arrow  of  a  cloth-yard  long 

To  the  hard  head  haled  he  ; 


Cberi?*Cbacc 


Against  Sir  Hugh  Mountgomery 

So  right  the  shaft  he  sett ; 
The  grey  goose  wing  that  was  thereon 

In  his  heart's  bloode  was  wett. 


This  fight  did  last  from  breake  of  day, 

Till  setting  of  the  sunne ; 
For  when  they  rung  the  evening-bell, 

The  battel  scarce  was  done. 

With  stout  Erie  Percy,  there  was  slaine 

Sir  John  of  Egerton, 
Sir  Robert  Ratcliff,  and  Sir  John, 

Sir  James,  that  bold  barr6n. 

And  with  Sir  George  and  stout  Sir  James, 
Both  knights  of  good  account. 

Good  Sir  Ralph  Raby  there  was  slaine. 
Whose  prowesse  did  surmount. 

For  Withering^on  my  heart  is  woe, 

That  ever  he  slaine  shold  be  : 
For  when  his  legs  were  hewn  in  two 

He  knelt  and  fought  en  his  knee.* 

And  with  Erie  Douglas,  there  was  slaine 

Sir  Hugh  Mountgomery. 
Sir  Charles  Murray,  that  from  the  feeld 

One  foote  wold  never  flee. 

Sir  Charles  Murray  of  Ratcliff,  too. 

His  sister's  sonne  was  hee ; 
Sir  David  I,amb,  so  well  esteem'd, 

But  saved  he  cold  not  bee. 


,  J'^'^*^"^V^'"K°*'"'^"'  '™"'  *'•*  °^^  ballad— in  accordance  with  the  sugeestior 
of  Dr.  Percy ;  for  although  the  death  of  Witherington,  as  described  in  the  ancient 
wy.  IS   exquisitely  touching,    in   the    modera  version  it    "never  fails  to  exciw 


Cbevi?*Cbace 


And  the  IvOrd  Maxwell  in  like  case 

Did  with  Erie  Douglas  dye  : 
Of  twenty  hundred  Scottish  speres, 

Scarce  fifty-five  did  flye. 

Of  fifteen  hundred  Englishmen, 

Went  home  but  fifty-three  ; 
The  rest  in  Chevy-Chace  were  slaine, 

Under  the  greene  woode  tree. 

Next  day  did  many  widdowes  come, 

Their  husbands  to  bewayle  ; 
They  washt  their  wounds  in  brinish  teares. 

But  all  wold  not  prevayle. 

Their  bodyes,  bathed  in  purple  blood, 
\J  They  bore  with  them  away  : 

They  kist  them  dead  a  thousand  times, 
Ere  they  were  cladd  in  clay. 

The  newes  was  brought  to  Eddenborrow, 
Where  Scottland's  king  did  raigne, 

That  brave  Erie  Douglas  suddenlye 
Was  with  an  arrow  slaine  : 

"O  heavy  newes,"  King  James  did  say, 

"  Scottland  can  witnesse  bee, 
I  have  not  any  captaine  more 

Of  such  account  as  hee." 

Ivike  tydings  to  King  Henry  came, 

Within  as  short  a  space, 
That  Percy  of  Northumberland 

Was  slaine  in  Chevy-Chace  : 

"  Now  God  be  with  him,"  said  our  king, 

"  Sith  't  will  noe  better  bee  ; 
I  trust  I  have,  within  my  realme. 

Five  hundred  as  good  as  hee  ; 


<Ibcvi2*Cbace 


"  Yett  shall  not  Scotts  nor  Scottland  say, 

But  I  will  vengeance  take  : 
I  '11  be  revenged  on  them  all, 

For  brave  Erie  Percy's  sake." 

This  vow  full  well  the  king  perform 'd 

After,  at  Humbledowne  : 
In  one  day,  fifty  knights  were  slayne, 

With  lords  of  high  renowne  : 

And  of  the  rest,  of  small  account, 

Did  many  hundreds  dj'e. 
Thus  endeth  the  hunting  of  Chevy-Chace, 

Made  by  the  Erie  Percy. 

God  save  the  king,  and  bless  this  land 
With  plentye,  joy,  and  peace  ; 

And  grant,  henceforth,  that  foule  debate 
'Twixt  noblemen  may  cease. 


^fec  CbilDcen  in  tbe  WooD 


rr 


! 

L 


Now  ponder  well,  you  parents  deare, 

These  wordes  which  I  shall  write  ; 
A  doleful  story  you  shall  heare, 

In  time  brought  forth  to  light. 
A  gentleman  of  good  account 

In  Norfolke  dwelt  of  late, 
Whose  wealth  and  riches  did  surmount 

Most  men  of  his  estate. 


See  A^^3eiRitx. 


1.2 


Zbe  CbilDren  In  tbc  limooD 


Sore  sicke  he  was,  and  like  to  dye, 

No  helpe  his  life  could  save  ; 
His  wife  by  him  as  sicke  did  lye, 

And  both  possest  one  g^ave. 
No  love  between  these  two  was  lost, 

Each  was  to  other  kinde, 
In  love  they  lived,  in  love  they  dyed, 

And  left  two  babes  behinde  : 
The  one  a  fine  and  pretty  boy. 

Not  passing  three  yeares  olde  ; 
The  other  a  girl  more  young  than  he, 

And  made  in  beautyes  molde. 
The  father  left  his  little  son, 

As  plainly e  doth  appeare. 
When  he  to  perfect  age  should  come, 

Three  hundred  poundes  a  yeare. 
And  to  his  little  daughter  Jane, 

Two  hundred  poundes  in  gold, 
To  be  paid  downe  on  marriage-day, 

Which  might  not  be  controll'd  : 
But  if  the  children  chance  to  dye, 

Ere  they  to  age  should  come. 
Their  uncle  should  possesse  their  wealth  : 

For  so  the  wille  did  run. 
"  Now,  brother,"  said  the  dying  man, 

•'  IvOok  to  my  children  deare  ; 
Be  good  unto  my  boy  and  girl, 

No  friendes  else  have  they  here  : 
To  God  and  you  I  do  commend 

My  children  night  and  day  ; 
A  little  while  be  sure  we  have 

Within  this  world  to  staye. 
"  You  must  be  father  and  mother  both. 

And  uncle  all  in  one  ; 
God  knowes  what  will  become  of  them, 

When  I  am  dead  and  gone," 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


XTbe  CbllDren  in  tbc  MooD    ^N2L£lttlf  OR^ 


With  that  bespake  their  mother  deare, 
"  O  brother  kinde,"  quoth  shee, 

"  You  are  the  man  must  bring  my  babes 
To  wealth  or  miserie  : 

"  If  you  do  keep  them  carefully, 

Then  God  will  you  reward  ; 
If  otherwise  you  seem  to  deal, 

God  will  your  deedes  regard." 
With  lippes  as  cold  as  any  stone, 

They  kist  the  children  small : 
"God  bless  you  both,  my  children  deare  ! " 

With  that  the  teares  did  fall. 
These  speeches  then  their  brother  spoke 

To  this  sicke  couple  there : 
"  The  keeping  of  your  children  deare 

Sweet  sister,  do  not  feare  : 
God  never  prosper  me  nor  mine, 

Nor  aught  else  that  I  have, 
If  I  do  wrong  your  children  deare, 

When  you  are  layd  in  grave. " 
Their  parents  being  dead  and  gone. 

The  children  home  he  takes. 
And  brings  them  both  unto  his  house. 

Where  much  of  them  he  makes. 
He  had  not  kept  these  pretty  babes 

A  twelvemonth  and  a  daye, 
But,  for  their  wealth,  he  did  devise 

To  make  them  both  awaye. 
He  bargain 'd  with  two  ruffians  rude, 

Which  were  of  furious  mood, 
That  they  should  take  the  children  young, 

And  slay  them  in  a  wood. 
He  told  his  wife,  and  all  he  had. 

He  would  the  children  send 
To  be  brought  up  in  faire  I,onddn, 

With  one  that  was  his  friend. 


14 


XLbc  Cbllbrcn  in  tbe  '(ICloo5 


r^- 


Away  then  went  the  pretty  babes, 

Rejoycing  at  that  tide, 
Rejoycing  with  a  merry  minde, 

They  should  on  cock-horse  ride. 
They  prate  and  prattle  pleasantly, 

As  they  rode  on  the  waye, 
To  those  that  should  their  butchers  be, 

And  work  their  lives'  decaye  : 
So  that  the  pretty  speeche  they  had. 

Made  murtherers  heart  relent : 
And  they  that  tooke  the  deed  to  do, 

Full  sore  they  did  repent. 
Yet  one  of  them,  more  hard  of  heart. 

Did  vowe  to  do  his  charge. 
Because  the  wretch  that  hired  him 

Had  paid  him  very  large. 
The  other  would  not  agree  thereto. 

So  here  they  fell  at  strife  ; 
With  one  another  they  did  fight, 

About  the  childrens  life  : 
And  he  that  was  of  mildest  mood. 

Did  slaye  the  other  there, 
Within  an  unfrequented  wood  ; 

Where  babes  did  quake  for  feare  ! 
He  took  the  children  by  the  hand. 

When  teares  stood  in  their  eye, 
And  bade  them  come  and  go  with  him, 

And  look  they  did  not  crj-e  : 
And  two  long  miles  he  ledd  them  thus. 

While  they  for  bread  complaine  : 
"Stay  here,"  quoth  he,  "I '11  bring  ye  bread. 

When  I  do  come  againe." 
These  pretty  babes,  with  hand  in  hand, 

Went  wandering  up  and  downe  ; 
But  never  more  they  sawe  the  man 

Approaching  from  the  towne ; 


XLbc  CbilOren  in  tbe  Wioob 


15 


Their  prettye  lippes  with  blackberries, 

Were  all  besmear'd  and  dyed, 
And  when  they  sawe  the  darksome  night, 

They  sat  them  downe  and  cryed. 
Thus  wandered  these  two  pretty  babes, 

Till  deathe  did  end  their  grief, 
And  in  one  anothers  armes  they  dyed, 

As  babes  wanting  relief : 
No  burial  these  pretty  babes 

Of  any  man  receives, 
Till  robin-red-breast  painfully 

Did  cover  them  with  leaves; 
And  now  the  heavy  wrathe  of  God 

Upon  their  uncle  fell ; 
Yea,  fearfuU  fiends  did  haunt  his  house. 

His  conscience  felt  an  hell : 
His  barnes  were  fired,  his  goods  consum'd. 

His  landes  were  barren  made, 
His  cattle  dyed  within  the  field. 

And  nothing  with  him  stayd. 
And  in  the  voyage  of  Portugal 

Two  of  his  sonnes  did  dye  ; 
And  to  conclude,  himself  was  brought 

Unto  much  miserye  : 
He  pawn'd  and  mortgaged  all  his  land 

^re  seven  years  came  about. 
And  now  at  length  this  wicked  act 

Did  by  this  meanes  come  out : 
The  fellowe,  that  did  take  in  hand 

These  children  for  to  kill, 
Was  for  a  robbery  judg'i  to  dye, 

As  was  God's  blessed  will : 
Who  did  confess  the  very  truth, 

The  which  is  here  exprest ; 
Their  uncle  dyed  while  he  for  debt 

Did  long  in  prison  rest. 


I6 


^be  CbilOren  in  tbe  TIDlooD 


jfaic  IRoeamonO 


17 


•  See  Appendix. 


i8 


^air  IRosamont) 


The  blood  within  her  chrystal  cheekes 

Did  such  a  colour  drive, 
As  though  the  lillye  and  the  rose 

For  mastership  did  strive. 

Yea  Rosamond,  fair  Rosamond, 

Her  name  was  called  so, 
To  whom  our  queene,  dame  Elinor, 

Was  known  a  deadlye  foe. 

The  king,  therefore,  for  her  defence, 

Against  the  furious  queene. 
At  Woodstocke  builded  such  a  bower, 

The  like  was  never  scene. 

Most  curiously  that  bower  was  built 

Of  stone  and  timber  strong, 
An  hundred  and  fifty  doors 

Did  to  this  bower  belong  : 

And  they  so  cunninglye  contriv'd, 
With  turnings  round  about, 

That  none  but  with  a  clue  of  thread 
Could  enter  in  or  out. 

And  for  his  love  and  ladyes  sake. 
That  was  so  faire  and  brighte. 

The  keeping  of  this  bower  he  gave 
Unto  a  valiant  knighte. 

But  fortune,  that  doth  often  frowne 
Where  she  before  did  smile. 

The  kinges  delighte,  the  ladyes  joy. 
Full  soon  shee  did  beguile ; 

For  why,  the  kinges  ungracious  sonne, 
Whom  he  did  high  advance. 

Against  his  father  raised  warres 
Within  the  realme  of  France. 


3Fafr  1Ro6amont> 


19 


But  yet  before  our  comelye  king 
The  English  land  forsooke, 

Of  Rosamond,  his  ladye  faire, 
His  farewelle  thus  he  tooke : 

"  My  Rosamond,  my  only  Rose, 
That  pleasest  best  mine  eye  ; 

The  fairest  flower  in  all  the  worlde 
To  feed  my  fantasye  : 

"The  flower  of  mine  affected  heart, 
Whose  sweetness  doth  excelle  ; 

My  royal  Rose,  a  thousand  times, 
I  bid  thee  nowe  farewelle  ! 

"  For  I  must  leave  my  fairest  flower. 
My  sweetest  Rose,  a  space, 

And  cross  the  seas  to  famous  France, 
Proud  rebelles  to  abase. 

"  But  yet,  my  Rose,  be  sure  thou  shalt 

My  coming-  shortly  see, 
And  in  my  heart,  when  hence  I  am. 

He  beare  my  Rose  with  mee." 

When  Rosamond,  that  ladye  brighte, 
Did  heare  the  kinge  saye  soe, 

The  sorrowe  of  her  grieved  heart 
Her  outward  looks  did  show  ; 

And  from  her  cleare  and  crystall  eyes 
The  teares  gusht  out  apace, 

Which  like  the  silver-pearled  dewe 
Ranne  downe  her  comely  face. 

Her  lippes  erst  like  the  corall  redde, 
Did  waxe  both  wan  and  pale, 

And  for  the  sorrowe  she  conceivde 
Her  vitall  spirits  faile  : 


\B  R  A  oT^ 


20 


yair  ■RosamonD 


And  falling  down  all  in  a  swcKjne 

Before  King  Henryes  face, 
Full  oft  he  in  his  princelye  armes 

Her  body  did  embrace  ; 

And  twentye  times,  with  watery  eyes, 

He  kist  her  tender  cheeke, 
Until  he  had  revivde  againe 

Her  senses  mUde  and  meeke. 

' '  Why  grieves  my  Rose,  my  sweetest  Rose  ? ' ' 

The  king  did  often  say. 
"Because,"  quoth  shee,  "to  bloodye  warres 

My  lord  must  pass  awaye. 

*'  But  sith  your  grace  in  forraj-ne  coastes, 

Amonge  your  foes  unkinde 
Must  goe  to  hazarde  life  and  limbe. 

Why  should  I  staye  behinde  ? 

"  Nay,  rather  let  me,  like  a  page. 

Your  sworde  and  target  beare. 
That  on  my  breast  the  blowes  may  lighte, 

Which  would  offend  you  there. 

"  Or  lett  mee,  in  your  royal  tent, 

Prepare  your  bed  at  nighte, 
And  with  sweete  baths  refresh  your  grace, 

At  your  retume  ft-om  fighte. 

"  So  I  your  presence  may  enjoye 

No  toil  I  will  refuse  ; 
But  wanting  you,  my  life  is  death  : 

Nay,  death  He  rather  choose." 

"  Content  thy  self,  mj'  dearest  love  ; 

Thy  rest  at  home  shall  bee 
In  Englandes  sweet  and  pleasant  isle  ; 

For  travell  fits  not  thee. 


3f  air  IRosamonC) 


21 


"  Faire  ladies  brooke  not  bloodye  warres  ; 

Sweet  peace  their  pleasures  breede, 
The  nourisher  of  hearts  content, 

Which  fancy  first  did  feede. 

"  My  Rose  shall  rest  in  Woodstocke  bower, 
With  musickes  sweete  delight ; 

Whilst  I,  amonge  the  piercing  pikes. 
Against  my  foes  do  fighte. 

"  My  Rose  in  robes  of  pearle  and  golde, 

With  diamonds  richly  dight ; 
Shall  dance  the  galliards  of  my  love, 

Whilst  I  my  foes  do  fighte. 

J       "  And  you,  Sir  Thomas,  whom  I  trust 
3  To  be  my  love's  defence  ; 

Be  careful  of  my  gallant  Rose 
When  I  am  parted  hence." 

And  therewithall  he  fetcht  a  sigh, 
As  though  his  heart  would  breake  : 

And  Rosamond,  for  inward  griefe, 
Not  one  plaine  worde  could  speake. 

And  at  their  parting  well  they  mighte 

In  heart  be  grieved  sore : 
After  that  daye  faire  Rosamond 

The  king  did  see  no  more. 

For  when  his  grace  had  passed  the  seas, 

And  into  France  was  gone ; 
With  envious  heart,  Queene  Flinor, 

To  Woodstocke  came  anone. 

And  forth  she  calls  the  trustye  knighte 
Which  kept  this  curious  bower ; 

Who  with  his  clue  of  twined  thread. 
Came  from  the  famous  flower. 


22 


3f  air  'KosamonO 


And  when  that  they  had  wounded  him, 
The  queene  his  thread  did  gette, 

And  went  where  Lady  Rosamond 
Was  like  an  angell  sette. 

And  when  the  queene  with  stedfast  eye 

Beheld  her  heavenlye  face, 
She  was  amazed  in  her  minde 

At  her  exceeding  grace.* 

«  In  the  old  ballad,—"  Rosamond's  Overthrow," 
to  which  we  have  referred  in  our  introductory  remarks, 
—the  interview  between  the  enraged  queen  and  her 
hapless  rival  is  thus  described  :— 


The  angry  Queen  with  malice  fraught. 

Could  not  herself  contain. 
Till  she  Fair  Rosamond  had  brought 

To  her  sad,  fatal  bane. 
The  sweet  and  charming  precious  Rose, 

King  Henry's  chief  delight ! 
The  Queen  she  to  her  bower  goes. 

And  wrought  her  hateful  spight. 

But  when  she  to  the  bower  came. 

Where  Lady  Clifford  lay. 
Enraged  Ellinor  by  name. 

She  could  not  find  the  way. 
Until  the  silken  clew  of  thread, 

Became  a  fatal  guide 
Unto  the  Queen,  who  laid  her  dead 

Ere  she  was  satisfied. 

Alas  !  it  was  no  small  surprise 

To  Rosamond  the  fair; 
When  death  appeared  before  her  eyes. 

No  faithful  friend  was  there. 
Who  could  stand  up  in  her  defence. 

To  put  the  potion  by ; 
So,  by  the  hands  of  violence. 

Compelled  she  was  to  die. 


"  I  will  not  pardon  you,"  she  said, 

' '  So  take  this  fatal  cup ; 
And  you  may  well  be  satisfied 

I  '11  see  you  drink  it  up." 
Then  with  her  fair  and  milk-white  hand 

The  fatal  cup  she  took  ; 
Which  being  drank,  she  could  not  stand. 

And  soon  the  world  forsook. 


IPair  IRosamonC) 


23 


"  Cast  off  from  thee  thy  robes,"  she  said, 
"  That  riche  and  costlye  bee  ; 

And  drinke  thou  up  this  deadlye  draught, 
Which  I  have  brought  to  thee. ' '  * 

But  presentlye  upon  her  knees 
Sweet  Rosamond  did  falle  ; 

And  pardon  of  the  queene  she  crav'd 
For  her  offences  all. 

"  Take  pittie  on  my  youthfull  yeares," 
Fair  Rosamond  did  crye  ; 

"  And  lett  mee  not  with  poison  stronge 
Enforced  bee  to  dye. 

"I  will  renounce  my  sinfull  life. 
And  in  some  cloyster  bide ; 

Or  else  be  banisht,  if  you  please, 
To  range  the  world  soe  wide  ; 

"And  for  the  fault  that  I  have  done, 
Though  I  was  forc'd  theretoe. 

Preserve  my  life,  and  punish  mee 
As  you  thinke  good  to  doe." 

And  with  these  words,  her  lillie  handes 
She  wrunge  full  often  there  ; 

And  downe  along  her  comelye  face 
Did  trickle  many  a  teare. 

*  In  "  The  Lamentation  of  Queen  Elinor,"  during  her  "  twenty-six  years'  "  im- 
prisonment, she  is  made  to  confess  the  crime  : 

"The  which  I  did  with  all  despite, 
Because  she  was  the  King's  delight." 
And  in  "  Queen  Elinor's  Confession,"  she  informs  the  king  : 
"  The  next  vile  thing  that  ever  I  did. 
To  you  I  will  discover ; 
I  poysoned  faire  Rosamond, 
All  in  faire  Woodstocke  Bower." 


24 


3falr  IRosamonD 


But  iiothino^  could  this  furious  queene 

Therewith  appeased  bee ; 
The  cup  of  deadlye  poyson  stronge, 

As  she  knelt  on  her  knee, 

Shee  gave  the  comelye  dame  to  drinke  ; 

T/ho  toolze  it  in  her  hcnd, 
And  from  her  bended  knee  arose, 

And  on  her  feet  did  stand ; 

And  easting  up  her  eyes  to  heaven, 

Shee  did  for  mercye  calle  ; 
And  drinking  up  the  poison  stronge, 

Her  life  she  lost  withalle. 

And  when  that  death  through  everye  limbe 

Had  showde  his  greatest  spite, 
Her  chiefcst  foes  did  there  confesse 

Shee  was  a  glorious  wight. 

Her  body  then  they  did  entombe. 

When  life  was  fled  away, 
At  Godstowe,  neere  to  Oxford  towne, 

As  may  be  scene  this  day. 


^be  Demon  Xovcr 


THE  DEMON  LOVER.* 

"  O  where  have  you  been  my  long,  long  love, 
This  long  seven  jcars  and  mair?  " 

"  O  I  'm  come  to  seek  my  former  vows, 
Ye  granted  nie  before." 

"  O  hold  your  tongue  of  your  former  vows. 

For  they  will  breed  sad  strife  ; 
O  hold  your  tongue  of  your  former  vows, 

For  I  am  become  a  wife." 


■  See  Appendix. 


26  ^be  ©cmon  %ovcv 


He  turned  him  right  and  round  about, 

And  the  tear  blinded  his  e'e  ; 
"  I  wad  never  hae  trodden  on  Irish  ground, 

If  it  had  not  been  for  thee. 

"  I  might  have  had  a  king's  daughter, 

Far  far  beyond  the  sea  ; 
I  might  have  had  a  king's  daughter. 


//      .^^  N  Had  it  not  been  for  love  o'  thee." 

"  '''   '■  -•^"'  ■  ,-_  !':  "If  ye  might  have  had  a  king's  daughter, 


H- 


Yersell  ye  had  to  blame  ; 
Ye  might  have  taken  the  king's  daughter, 
For  ye  kend  that  I  was  nane." 


^.  „  -  "  O  faulse  are  the  vows  o'  womankind, 

j%.:  -^^  But  fair  is  their  faulse  bodie ; 

'-''"'  '..      '  I  never  would  hae  trodden  on  Irish  ground, 

Had  it  not  been  for  love  o'  thee.'* 

"  If  I  was  to  leave  my  husband  dear, 

And  my  two  babes  also, 
O  what  have  you  to  take  me  too. 

If  with  you  I  should  go  ?  " 

"I  have  seven  ships  upon  the  sea, 
The  eighth  brought  me  to  land ; 

With  four-and-twenty  bold  mariners, 
And  music  on  every  hand." 

She  has  taken  up  her  two  little  babes, 
Kissed  them  baith  cheek  and  chin  : 

"  O  fare  ye  weel,  my  ain  two  babes, 
For  I  '11  never  see  you  again." 

She  set  her  foot  upon  the  ship, 
No  mariners  could  she  behold  ; 

But  the  sails  were  o'  the  taffetie, 
And  the  masts  o'  the  beaten  gold. 


Zbc  H)cmon  Xovec 


She  had  not  sailed  a  league,  a  league 
A  league  but  barely  three, 

When  dismal  grew  his  countenance, 
And  drumlie  grew  his  e'e. 

The  masts  that  were  like  the  beaten  gold, 
Bent  not  on  the  heaving  seas  ; 

And  the  sails  that  were  o'  the  taflfetie, 
Filled  not  in  the  eastland  breeze. 

They  had  not  sailed  a  league,  a  league, 
A  league  but  barely  three. 

Until  she  espied  his  cloven  foot, 
And  she  wept  right  bitterlie.* 

"O  hold  your  tongue  of  your  weeping,"  says 
■1         "  Of  your  weeping  now  let  me  be  ;        [he, 
'      I  will  show  you  how  the  lilies  grow 
On  the  banks  of  Italy." 

"  O  what  hills  are  yon,  yon  pleasant  hills, 
That  the  sun  shines  sweetly  on  ?  " 

"  O  yon  are  the  hills  of  heaven,"  he  said, 
"  Where  you  will  never  win." 

"  O  whaten  a  mountain  is  yon,"  she  said, 
"  All  so  dreary  wi'  frost  and  snow  ?  " 
'^'  "  O  yon  is  the  mountain  of  hell, ' '  he  cried, 

"  Where  you  and  I  will  go." 

*  In  Mr.  Buchan's  ballad,  remorse  is  made  to  visit  the  heroine,  not  by  the  sight 
of  the  **  cloven  foot,"  but  by  a  feeling  more  natural  and  more  worthy : — 
She  minded  on  her  dear  hushand, 
Her  little  son  tee. 
And  at  the  same  time, — 

The  thoughts  o'  grief  came  in  her  mind. 
And  she  langed  for  to  be  hame ; 
While  the  miserable  woman  thus  prays : — 

"  I  may  be  buried  in  Scottish  ground, 
Where  I  was  bred  andborn." 


28 


XLbe  Demon  Xovcr 


And  aye  "when  slie  turned  her  round  about 

Aye  taller  he  seemed  to  be  ; 
Until  that  the  tops  o'  the  gallant  ship 

Nae  taller  were  than  he. 

[loud, 
The  clouds  grew  dark,  and  the  wind  grew 

And  the  levin  filled  her  e'e  ;        [sprites, 
And  waesome  wailed  the  snow-white 

Upon  the  gnrlie  sea. 

He  struck  the  topmast  wi'  his  hand. 

The  foremast  wi'  his  knee  ; 
And  he  brake  that  gallant  ship  in  twain. 

And  sank  her  in  the  sea. 


Zbc  1Kluts:©rown  ^a^^ 


29 


Be  It  right  or  wrong,  these  men  among 

On  women  do  coniplayne 
AfTcrmyng  this,  how  that  it  is 

A  labour  spent  in  vayne, 
To  love  them  wele  ;  for  never  a  dele 

Tliey  love  a  man  agayne  : 
For  lete  a  man  do  what  he  can, 

Theyr  favour  to  attayne. 
Yet,  yf  a  newe  do  them  pursue, 

Theyr  first  true  lover  than 
Laboureth  for  nought:  and  from  her  thought 

He  is  a  banyshed  man. 


See  Appendix. 


30 


XLbc  1ftut*:®rown  /Ra^O 


I  say  not  nay,  but  that  all  day 

It  is  bothe  writ  and  sayde 
That  womans  faith  is,  as  who  saj^th. 

All  utterly  decayde ; 
But,  neverthelesse,  rj^ght  good  wytn^se 

In  this  case  might  be  layd. 
That  they  love  trewe,  and  contynew  : 

Recorde  the  Nut-brown  Mayd  : 
Which,  from  her  love  (when  her  to  prove. 

He  cam  to  make  his  mone), 
Wolde  not  depart ;  for  in  her  herte 

She  loved  but  hym  alone. 
Than,  betweine  us,  lete  us  discusse 

What  was  all  the  manere 
Betwene  them  two  :  we  wyll  also 

Tell  all  the  payne,  and  fere. 
That  she  was  in.    Nowlbegyn, 

So  that  ye  me  answdre  ; 
Wherfore,  ye,  that  present  be, 

I  pray  you,  gy\'e  an  eare 
I  am  the  knyght ;  I  come  by  nyght, 

As  secret  as  I  can  : 
Sajange,  "Alas  !  thus  standeth  the  case, 

I  am  a  banyshed  man." 
"  And  I  your  wj^l  for  to  fulfyll 

In  this  wyll  not  refuse  ; 
Trustyinge  to  shewe,  in  wordfe  few. 

That  men  have  an  ille  use 
(To  theyr  own  shame)  women  to  blame. 

And  causelesse  them  accuse  ; 
Therfore  to  you  I  answere  nowe, 

All  women  to  excuse, — 
My  owne  hart  dere,  with  you  what  chere  i 

I  pray  you,  tell  anone  ; 
For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 

I  love  but  you  alone." 


^be  'UuUMvovcn  /IRa^D 


31 


"  It  stondeth  so  ;  a  dede  is  do 

Whereof  moche  harme  shall  growe  : 
My  destiny  is  for  to  dy 

A  shamefuU  deth,  I  trowe  ; 
Or  ell^s  to  flee  :  the  one  must  bee. 

None  other  way  I  knowe, 
But  to  withdrawe  as  an  outlawe, 

And  take  me  to  my  bowe. 
Wherfore,  adue,  my  owne  hart  true  ! 

None  other  rede  I  can  ; 
For  I  must  to  the  grene  wode  go, 

Alone,  a  banyshed  man." 
"  O  I,ord,  what  is  thys  worldys  blysse 

That  changeth  as  the  mone  ! 
My  somers  day  in  lusty  may 

Is  derked  before  the  none. 
I  here  you  say,  farewell :  nay,  nay, 

We  depart  not  so  sone. 
Why  say  y€  so?  wheder  will  ye  go ? 

Alas  !  what  have  ye  done  ? 
All  my  welfare  to  sorrowe  and  care 

Sholde  chaunge,  yf  ye  were  gone  ; 
For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 

I  love  but  you  alone." 
"  I  can  beleve,  it  shall  you  greve, 

And  somewhat  you  dystrayne  ; 
But,  aflyrwarde,  your  paynes  harde 

Within  a  day  or  twayne 
Shall  sone  aslake  ;  and  ye  shall  take 

Comfort  to  you  agayne.  [thought, 

Why  sholde  ye  nought?   for,  to  make 

Your  labour  were  in  vayne. 
And  thus  I  do  ;  and  pray  you  to. 

As  hartely,  as  I  can ; 
For  I  must  to  the  grene  wode  go, 

Alone,  a  banyshed  man." 


32 


Zbc  IftutsJSrown  ^agJ) 


"  Now,  S3i;h  that  ye  have  shewed  to  me 

The  secret  of  your  tnjTide, 
I  shall  be  playne  to  you  agayne, 

I,yke  as  ye  shall  me  fynde. 
Sith  it  is  so,  that  ye  wyll  go, 

I  wolle  not  leve  behynde  ; 
Shall  never  be  sayd,  the  Nut-brown  Mayd 

Was  to  her  love  unkjmde  : 
Make  you  redj-,  for  so  am  I, 

Allthough  it  were  anone  ; 
For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 

I  love  but  you  alone." 
"Yet  I  you  rede  to  take  good  hede 

What  men  wyll  thynke,  and  say  : 
Of  yonge  and  olde  it  shall  be  tolde, 

That  ye  be  gone  away, 
Your  wanton  wyll  for  to  fulfill, 

In  grene  wode  you  to  play  ; 
And  that  ye  mygUt  from  your  delyght 

No  lenger  make  delay. 
Rather  than  ye  sholde  thus  for  me 

Be  called  an  yll  wom^, 
Yet  wolde  I  to  the  grene  wode  go 

Alone,  a  banyshed  man." 
"Though  it  be  songe  of  old  and  yonge. 

That  I  sholde  be  to  blame, 
Theyrs  be  the  charge,  that  speke  so  large 

In  hurtynge  of  my  name  : 
For  I  wyll  prove,  that  faythfulle  love 

It  is  devoyd  of  shame ; 
In  your  dystresse,  and  hevynesse, 

To  part  with  you  the  same  : 
And  sure  all  tho,  that  do  not  so, 

True  lovers  are  they  none  ; 
For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankjmde, 

I  love  but  you  alone." 


^be  flut*:fi3rown  ^a»C) 


33 


I 


"I  councelye  you,  remember  howe, 

It  IS  no  maydens  lawe, 
Nothynge  to  dout,  but  to  renne  out 

To  wode  with  an  outUwe  • 
For  ye  must  there  in  your  hand  bere 

A  bowe,  redy  to  drawe  ; 
And,  as  a  thefe,  thus  must  you  lyve 

Kver  in  drede  and  awe  • 

^TZTrT  ^"T  ^"""^  '^y^'^'  ^°--  ■ 

yet  had  I  lever  than, 
That  I  had  to  the  grene  wode  go, 

Alone,  a  banyshed  man.'* 
"  I  thinke  not  nay,  but  asE^esay/' 

It  IS  no  maydens  lore  : 
But  love  may  make  me  for  your  sake 

As  ye  have  sayd  before 
To  come  on  fote,  to  hunt,  and  shote 

To  gete  us  mete  in  store  ; 
For  so  that  I  your  company 

May  have,  I  aske  no  more  • 
From  which  to  part,  it  maketh  my  hart 

As  colde  as  ony  stone  ; 
For  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 

I  love  but  you  alone. ' ' 
"  For  an  outlawe  this  is  the  lawe 
That  men  hym  take  and  bynde  ; 
Without  pytee,  hanged  to  be. 
And  waver  with  the  wynde 
If  I  had  nede,  (as  God  forbede  !) 
What  rescous  coude  ye  fynde  > 
Forsoth,  I  trowe,  ye  and  your  bowe 

For  fere  wolde  drawe  behynde  • 
And  no  mervayle ;  for  lytell  avayle 

Were  in  your  counceyle  than  • 
Wherfore  I  to  the  wode  will  go, 
Alone,  a  banyshed  man. ' ' 


34 


Zhc  Hut^JBrown  Aast> 


"  Right  wele  knowe  ye,  that  women  be 

Ful  feble  fox  to  fyght ; 
No  womanhede  is  it  indede 

To  be  bolde  as  a  knyght : 
Yet,  in  such  fere  j'f  that  ye  were 

With  enemyes  day  and  nyght, 
I  wolde  withstande,  with  bowe  in  hande, 

To  greve  them  as  I  myght, 
And  you  to  save  ;  as  w^omen  have 

From  deth  saved  many  one  : 
For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankjmde 

I  love  but  you  alone." 
"  Yet  take  good  hede  ;  for  ever  I  drede 

That  ye  coude  not  sustayne 
The  thomie  wayes,  the  depe  valeies, 

The  snowe,  the  frost,  the  rayne. 
The  colde,  the  hete  :  for  dry  or  wete. 

We  must  lodge  on  the  playne  ; 
And,  us  above,  none  other  rofe 

Bnt  a  brake  bush,  or  twayne  ; 
Which  sone  sholde  greve  you,  I  beleve  ; 

And  ye  wolde  gladly  than 
That  I  had  to  the  grene  wode  go, 

Alone,  a  banj-shed  man." 
"  Syth  I  have  here  bene  partynere 

With  j^ou  of  joy  and  blysse, 
I  must  also  parte  of  your  wo 

Endure,  as  reson  is  : 
Yet  am  I  sure  of  one  plesure  ; 

And,  shortely,  it  is  this  : 
That,  where  ye  be,  me  semeth,  perdS, 

I  coude  not  fare  amysse. 
Without  more  speche,  I  you  beseche 

That  we  were  sone  agone  ; 
For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankj^de 
I  love  but  you  alone." 


OF  THB 

TJNIVERSITY 


tCbe  mut^JBrown  ilftai2oV£L£ikiI2^ 


"  If  ye  go  thiyder,  ye  must  consyder, 

Whan  ye  have  lust  to  dyne, 
There  shall  no  mete  be  for  to  gete, 

Nor  drinke,  here,  ale,  ne  wyne. 
No  shet^s  clene,  to  lye  betwene. 

Made  of  threde  and  twyne  ; 
None  other  house,  but  leves  and  bowes, 

To  cover  your  hed  and  myne. 
O  myne  harte  swete,  this  evyll  dySte 

Sholde  make  you  pale  and  wan ; 
"Wherefore  I  to  the  wode  will  go, 

Alone,  a  banyshed  man." 
' '  Amonge  the  wylde  dere,  such  an  arch&res, 

As  men  say  that  ye  be, 
Ne  may  not  fayle  of  good  vitayle. 

Where  is  so  grete  plenty : 
And  water  clere  of  the  ryv6re 

Shall  be  full  swete  to  me  ; 
With  which  in  hele  I  shall  ryght  wele 

Endure,  as  ye  shall  see  ; 
And,  er  we  go,  a  bedde  or  two 

I  can  provyde  anone  ; 
For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 

I  love  but  you  alone." 
"  1,0  yet,  before,  ye  must  do  more, 

Yf  ye  wyll  go  with  me  : 
As  cut  your  here  up  by  your  ere  ; 

Your  kyrtel  by  the  knee ; 
With  bowe  in  hande,  for  to  withstande 

Your  enemy es  yf  nede  be  : 
And  this  same  nyght  before  day-lyght, 

To  wode-warde  wyll  I  fle. 
Yf  that  ye  wyll  all  this  fulfill, 

Do  it  shortely  as  ye  can  : 
Els  wyll  I  to  the  grene  wode  go, 

Alone,  a  banyshed  man." 


Zbc  •Wut*:©rown  Ifba^b 


■<i&l,i..JU: 


'*/A.; 


"  I  shall  as  nowe  do  more  for  you 

Than  longeth  to  womanhede  ; 
To  short  my  here,  a  bowe  to  here, 

To  shote  in  t jTne  of  nede. 
O  my  sweet  mother,  before  all  other 

For  you  I  have  most  drede : 
But  nowe,  adue  !    I  must  ensue, 

Wher  fortune  doth  me  lede. 
All  this  make  ye  :  now  let  us  fie  ; 

The  day  cometh  fast  upon  ; 
For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mank^oide 

I  love  but  you  alone." 
"  Nay,  naj',  not  so  ;  ye  shall  not  go, 

And  I  shall  tell  ye  why, — 
Your  appetj^ght  is  to  be  lyght 

Of  love,  I  wele  espy  : 
For,  lyke  as  ye  have  sayed  to  i«|j 

In  lyke  wyse  hardely  '• 

Ye  wolde  answ^e  whosoever  it  were, 

In  way  of  company. 
It  is  sayd  of  olde,  Sone  hote,  sone  colde ; 

And  so  is  a  woman. 
WTierfore  I  to  the  wode  wj-U  go. 

Alone,  a  banyshed  man." 
"  Yf  ye  take  hede,  yett  is  no  nede 

Such  wordes  to  say  by  me  ; 
For  oft  ye  prayed,  and  longe  assayed, 

Or  I  you  loved,  perdS : 
And  though  that  I  of  auncestry 

A  barons  daughter  be. 
Yet  have  you  proved  how  I  you  loved, 

A  squyer  of  lowe  degre  ; 
And  ever  shall,  whatso  befall ; 

To  y€  therfore  anone  ; 
For,  in  my  mj-nde,  of  all  mankynde 

I  love  but  you  alone." 


XTbe  1Plut=:©rown  /IBai25 


37 


"  A  barons  chylde  to  be  begylde  ! 

It  were  a  cursed  dede  ; 
To  be  fel^we  with  an  outlawe  ! 

Almighty  God  forbede ! 
Yet  better  were,  the  pore  squy^e 

Alone  to  forest  yede, 
Than  ye  sholde  say  another  day, 

That,  by  my  wicked  dede, 
Ye  were  betrayd  :  wherfore,  good  mayd, 

The  best  rede  that  I  can, 
Is,  that  I  to  the  grene  wode  go. 

Alone,  a  banyshed  man." 
"  "Whatever  befall,  I  never  shall 

Of  this  thyng  you  upbrayd  : 
But  yf  ye  go,  and  leve  me  so, 

Than  have  ye  me  betrayd. 
Remember  wele,  howe  that  ye  dele  ; 

For,  yf  ye,  as  ye  sayd, 
Be  so  unkynde,  to  leve  behynde, 

Your  love,  the  Nut-brown  Mayd, 
Trust  me  truly,  that  I  shall  dy 

Sone  after  ye  be  gone  ; 
For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 

I  love  but  you  alone." 
"  Yf  that  ye  went,  ye  sholde  repent ; 

For  in  the  forest  nowe 
I  have  purvayed  me  of  a  mayd, 

Whom  I  love  more  than  you  ; 
Another  fasrr^re,  than  ever  ye  were, 

I  dare  it  wele  avowe  ; 
And  of  you  bothe  eche  sholde  be  wrothe 

With  other,  as  I  trowe  : 
It  were  myne  ese,  to  lyve  in  pese  ; 

So  wyll  I,  yf  I  can  ; 
Wherfore  I  to  the  wode  wyll  go, 

Alone,  a  banyshed  man." 


38 


^be  •ftutssJBrown  Aa^D 


*'  Though  in  the  wode  I  iindyrstode 

Ye  had  a  paramour, 
All  this  may  nought  remove  my  thought. 

But  that  I  wyll  be  your  : 
And  she  shall  fynde  me  soft,  and  kynde 

And  courteys  every  hour ; 
Glad  to  fulfyll  all  that  she  wyll 

Commaunde  me  to  my  power : 
For  had  ye,  lo,  an  hundred  mo, 

Of  them  I  wolde  be  one  ; 
For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 

I  love  but  you  alone." 
"  aiyne  owne  dere  love,  I  see  the  prove 

That  ye  be  kjTide  and  true  ; 
Of  mayde,  and  wyfe,  in  all  my  lyfe, 

The  best  that  ever  I  knewe. 
Be  mer>'  and  glad,  be  no  more  sad, 

The  case  is  chaunged  newe  ; 
For  it  were  ruthe,  that,  for  your  truthe, 

Ye  sholde  have  cause  to  rewe. 
Be  not  dismayed  ;  whatsoever  I  sayd 

To  j-ou,  whan  I  began ; 
I  w>'ll  not  to  the  grene  wode  go  ; 

I  am  no  banyshed  man." 
"  These  tydingB  be  more  gladd  to  me, 

Than  to  be  made  a  queue. 
Yf  I  were  sure  they  sholde  endure  : 

But  it  is  often  sene 
Whan  men  wyll  breke  promyse,  they  speke 

The  word^s  on  the  splene. 
Ye  shape  some  wyle  me  to  begyle, 

And  stele  from  me,  I  wene  : 
Than  were  the  case  worse  than  it  was, 

And  I  more  wo-begone  : 
For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 

I  love  but  you  alone," 


XLbc  1Flut:=:©rown  /Iftai^O 


39 


6:^*  ri  -'  - 


"  Ye  shall  not  nede  farther  to  drede  ; 

I  wyll  not  dyspard.ge 
You,  (God  defend  !)  syth  ye  descend 

Of  so  grete  a  lyn^e. 
Nowe  undyrstande  ;  to  Westmarlande, 

Which  is  myne  herytage, 
I  wyll  youibrynge ;  and  with  a  rynge 

By  way  of  maryage 
I  wyll  you  take,  and  lady  make. 

As  shortely  as  I  can  : 
Thus  have  you  won  an  erlys  son 

And  not  a  banyshed  man." 


The  reader  may  be  interested  in  comparing  some 
readings  of  the  old  ballad,  as  printed  in  Arnold's 
Chronicle,  with  those  that  occur  m  the  "  folio  MS." 
of  Dr.  Percy.     In — 

Line   9,  Arnold's  Chron.,  to  them  ;     Percy,  do  them. 

28 they  peyne  ;      .  the  payne. 

"      so, nioche ;     .     .     .  grate. 

"     79 ought;       .     .     .  nought. 

"     8r, loo;       .     .     .    '.  to. 

"98 whan;       .     .     .  what. 

"    126, to  here  and;      .  ready  to. 

"    136 ye; I. 

"    137, and;      .     .     .     .  m. 

•'    158 ful  ;       ....  but. 

■'    159 ful;       ....  ryght. 

"    162 ,     .  and;      ....  or. 

These  examples  will  suffice  to  shew  that  very  few 
changes  were  introduced  in  the  "  Reliques."  The  most 
important  occurs  in  lines  21  and  22,  which  Percy  prints : 

Which,  when  her  love  came,  her  to  prove. 
To  her  to  make  his  mone. 

We  retain  the  reading  as  we  find  it  in  Arnold.  In  the 
several  editions  of  Arnold,  there  are  also  some  varia- 
tions, but  none  of  them  are  of  much  importance;  they 
are  all  given  in  a  small  reprint  of  the  ballad,  published 
in  1836,  by  Mr.  Pickering:  From  one  of  them,  Percy 
appears  to  have  copied  the  two  lines  inserted  above.  In 
this  reprint,  the  text  is  copied  from  the  earliest  edition 
of  Arnold,  "supposed"  to  have  been  printed  about 
1502 ;  the  variations  are,  chiefly,  from  the  edition  of 
1521.  The  orthography  varies  with  the  various  edi- 
tions ;  we  have,  generally,  followed  Percy.  As  an  ex- 
ample, we  may  observe,  that  in  Arnold,  the  word  which 
pccurs  so  frequently  is  spelt  "bannisshed." 


40 


^be  "Huts^JSrown  Aa^D 


Here  may  ye  se,  that  women  be 

In  love,  meke,  kynde,  and  stable  : 
I^ate  never  man  reprove  them  than, 

Or  call  them  variable  ; 
But,  rather,  pray  God  that  we  may 

To  them  be  comfortable  ; 
Which  sometyme  proveth  such  as  loveth, 

Yf  they  be  charytable. 
For  syth  men  wolde  that  women  sholde 

Be  meke  to  them  each  one, 
IVIoche  more  ought  they  to  God  obey. 

And  serve  but  hym  alone. 


Ikempion 


41 


KEMPION.* 

"Cum  heir,  cum  heir,  ye  freely  fee'd. 
And  lay  your  head  low  ou  my  knee ; 

The  heaviest  weird  I  will  you  read. 
That  ever  was  read  to  gay  ladye. 

"O  meikle  dolour  sail  ye  dree, 
And  aye  the  salt  seas  o'er  ye  'se  swim ; 

And  far  mair  dolour  sail  ye  dree 
On  Estmere  crags,  when  ye  them  climb, 


*  See  Appendix. 


42 


Icempfon 


"  I  weird  ye  to  a  fiery  beast, 
And  relieved  sail  ye  never  be, 

Till  Kempion,  the  kingis  son. 

Cum  to  the  crag,  and  thrice  kiss  thee."— 

O  meikle  dolour  did  she  dree, 
And  aye  the  salt  seas  o'er  she  swam  ; 

And  far  mair  dolour  did  she  dree 
On  Bstmere  crags,  when  she  them  clamb : 

And  aye  she  cried  for  Kempion, 
Gin  he  would  but  come  to  her  hand. 

Now  word  has  gane  to  Kempion, 
That  sicken  a  beast  was  in  his  land. 

"  Now,  by  my  sooth,"  said  Kempion, 
"  This  fierj'  beast  I  '11  gang  and  see." 

"  And  by  my  sooth,"  said  Segramour, 
"My  ae  brother,  I  '11  gang  wi'  thee." 

Then  bigged  hae  they  a  bonny  boat, 
And  they  hae  set  her  to  the  sea ; 

But  a  mile  before  they  reached  the  shore. 
Around  them  she  gared  the  red  fire  flee. 

■'  O  Segramour,  !;eep  the  boat  afloat. 
And  let  her  na  the  land  o'er  near  ; 

For  this  wicked  beast  will  sure  gae  mad, 
And  set  fire  to  a'  the  land  and  mair." — 

Syne  has  he  bent  an  arblast  bow. 
And  aimed  an  arrow  at  her  head  ; 
^v-^'     And  swore  if  she  didna  quit  the  land, 
"y  Wi'  that  same  shaft  to  shoot  her  dead. 

"  O  out  of  my  stythe  I  winna  rise, 
(And  it  is  not  for  the  awe  o'  thee,) 

Till  Kempion,  the  kingis  son, 
Cum  to  the  crag,  and  thrice  kiss  me.''— 


ftempfon 


43 


He  has  louted  him  o'er  the  dizzy  crag, 
And  gien  the  monster  kisses  ane  ; 

Awa  she  gaed,  and  again  she  cam, 
The  fieryest  beast  that  ever  was  seen. 

"  O  out  o'  my  stythe  I  winna  rise, 
(And  not  for  a'  thy  bow  nor  thee,) 

Till  Kempion,  the  kingis  son. 
Cum  to  the  crag,  and  thrice  kiss  me." — 

He  's  louted  him  o'er  the  Estmere  crag. 
And  he  has  gi'en  her  kisses  twa  : 

Awa  she  gaed,  and  again  she  cain. 
The  fieryest  beast  that  ever  you  saw. 

"  O  out  of  my  den  I  winna  rise. 
Nor  flee  it  for  the  fear  o'  thee. 

Till  Kempion,  that  courteous  knight, 
Cum  to  the  crag,  and  thrice  kiss  me." 

He  's  louted  him  o'er  the  lofty  crag. 
And  he  has  gi'en  her  kisses  three  : 

Awa  she  gaed,  and  again  she  cam, 
The  loveliest  ladye  e'er  could  be ! 

"And  by  my  sooth,"  says  Kempion, 
"  My  ain  true  love,  (for  this  is  she,) 

They  surely  had  a  heart  o'  stane. 
Could  put  thee  to  such  misery. 

"  O  was  it  warwolf*  in  the  wood? 

Or  was  it  mermaid  in  the  sea? 
Or  was  it  man  or  vile  woman, 

My  ain  true  love,  that  mis-shaped  thee  ?  ' ' — 

•  Warwolf  signifies  a  magician,  possessing  the  power  of  transforming  himself  into 
a  wolf,  for  the  purpose  of  ravage  and  destruction, 


44 


Ikempfon 


"  It  wasna  warwolf  in  the  wood, 

Nor  was  it  mermaid  in  the  sea ; 
But  it  was  my  wicked  step-mother, 
And  wae  and  weary  may  she  be  ! " — 

"  O,  a  heavier  wierd  shall  light  her  on. 
Than  ever  fell  on  vile  woman  ; 

Her  hair  shall  grow  rough, 
And  her  teeth  grow  lang, 
And  on  her  four  feet  shall  she  gang. 

"  None  shall  take  pity  her  upon  ; 

In  Wormeswood  she  aye  shall  wan ; 
And  relieved  shall  she  never  be. 

Till  St.  Mungo  come  over  the  sea."— 
And  sighing,  said  that  weary  wight, 

"  I  doubt  that  day  I  '11  never  see  !" 


XLbc  CbllD  of  iSUc 


45 


•  See  Appendix 


46 


XLbe  CbllD  of  Bile 


The  ChUd  of  EUe  he  hyed  him  thence, 

Y-wis  he  stoode  not  stille, 
And  soone  he  mette  faire  Emmelines  page 

Come  climbing  up  the  hille. 

"Nowe  Christe  thee  save,  thou  little  foot- 
Nowe  Christe  thee  save  and  see  !     [page, 

Oh,  tell  me  how  does  thy  ladye  gaye, 
And  what  may  thy  tydinges  bee  ?  ' ' 

My  lady  she  is  all  woe-begone. 
And  the  teares  they  falle  from  her  eyne  ; 
And  aye  she  laments  the  deadlye  feude 
Betweene  her  house  and  thine. 

"  And  here  shee  sends  thee  a  silken  scarfe 

Bedewde  with  many  a  teare. 
And  biddes  thee  sometimes  thinke  on  her. 

Who  loved  tliee  so  deare. 

"And  here  shee  sends  thee  a  ring  of  golde 
The  last  boone  thou  mayst  have, 

And  biddes  thee  weare  it  for  her  sake, 
"Whan  she  is  layd  in  grave. 

'  For,  ah  !  her  gentle  heart  is  broke, 

And  in  grave  soone  must  shee  bee.  [love, 
Sith  her  father  hath  chose  her  a  new  new 
And  forbidde  her  to  think  of  thee 

"Her  father  hath  brought  her  a  carlish 
Sir  John  of  the  north  countr^ye,    [knighte, 

And  within  three  days  shee  must  him 
Or  he  vowes  he  will  her  slaye. ' '   [wedde, 

"Nowe  hye  thee  backe,  thou  little  foot- 
And  greet  thy  ladye  from  mte,      [page, 

And  tell  her  that  I,  her  owne  true  love, 
Will  dye,  or  sette  her  free. 


Ube  Cbilt)  of  :6Uc 


47 


"  Nowe  hye  thee  backe,  thou  little  foot-page, 

And  let  thy  fair  ladye  know 
This  night  will  I  bee  at  her  bowre  windowe, 

Betide  me  weale  or  woe." 

The  boye  he  tripped,  the  boye  he  ranne. 

He  neither  stint  ne  stayd 
Until  he  came  to  fair  Kmmelines  bowre, 

Whan  kneeling  downe  he  sayd  : 

"  O  ladye,  I  'vc  been  with  thy  own  true  love. 
And  he  greets  thee  well  by  mee  ; 

This  night  will  he  be  at  thy  bowre-wind6we, 
And  dye  or  sette  thee  free." 

Nowe  day  was  gone  and  night  was  come, 

And  all  were  fast  asleepe, 
All  save  the  ladye  Emmeline, 

"Who  sate  in  her  bowre  to  weepe  ; 

And  soone  shee  heard  her  true  loves  voice 
I^owe  whispering  at  the  walle  : 

"Awake,  awake,  my  deare  lady^, 
Tis  I  thy  true  love  call. 

"  Awake,  awake,  my  ladye  deare, 
Come,  mount  this  faire  palfr^ye  ; 

This  ladder  of  ropes  will  lette  thee  downe, 
He  carrye  thee  hence  awaye." 

Nowe  nay,  nowe  nay,  thou  gentle  knightc 
Nowe  nay,  this  may  not  bee  ; 
For  aye  should  I  tint  my  maiden  fame, 
If  alone  I  should  wend  with  thee." 

"  O  ladye,  thou  with  a  knighte  so  true 

Mayst  safelye  wend  alone. 
To  my  ladye  mother  I  will  thee  bringe, 

Where  marriage  shall  make  us  one." 


48 


^be  CbilD  of  Bile 


"  My  father  he  is  a  baron  bolde, 

Of  l5aiage  proude  and  hye  ; 
And  what  would  he  saye  if  his  daughter 

Awaye  with  a  knighte  should  fly  ? 

"  Ah  !  well  I  wot,  he  never  would  rest, 
Nor  his  meate  should  do  him  no  goode, 

Until  he  had  slain  thee,  Child  of  KUe, 
And  scene  thy  deare  hearts  bloode." 

"  O  ladye,  wert  thou  in  thy  saddle  sette, 

And  a  little  space  him  fro, 
I  would  not  care  for  thy  cruel  father, 

Nor  the  worst  that  he  could  doe. 

"  O  ladye,  wert  thou  in  thy  saddle  sette, 

And  once  without  this  walle, 
I  would  not  care  for  thy  cruel  father, 

Nor  the  worst  that  might  befalle." 

Fair  Emmeline  sighed,  fair  Hmmeline  wept, 

And  aye  her  heart  was  woe  : 
At  length  he  seized  her  liHy-white  hand, 

And  downe  the  ladder  he  drewe  : 

And  thrice  he  clasped  her  to  his  breste, 

And  kist  her  tenderlie  : 
The  teares  that  fell  from  her  fair  eyes 

Ranne  like  the  fountayne  free. 

Hee  mounted  himselfe  on  his  stede  so  talle. 

And  her  on  a  fair  palfr^ye, 
And  slung  his  bugle  about  his  necke. 

And  roundlye  they  rode  away. 

All  this  beheard  her  owne  dams^le, 

In  her  bed  whereas  shee  ley, 
Quoth  shee  :  "  My  lord  shall  knowe  of  this, 

Soe  I  shall  have  golde  and  fee. 


^be  CbilD  of  IBlic 


49 


"  Awake,  awake,  thou  baron  bolde  ! 

Awake,  my  noble  dame  !  [E)lle 

Your  daughter  is  fledde  with  the  Child  of 

To  doe  the  deede  of  shame." 


The  baron  he  woke,  the  baron  he  rose, 
And  called  his  merrye  men  all : 

"And come  thou  forth,  Sir  John  the  knighte, 
Thy  ladye  is  carried  to  thrall." 

Faire  Knimeline  scant  had  ridden  a  mile 

A  mile  forth  of  the  towne, 
When  she  was  aware  of  her  fathers  men 

Come  galloping  over  the  downe  : 

And  formost  came  the  carlish  knighte. 
Sir  John  of  the  north  countraye  : 

"  Nowestop,  nowe  stop,  thou  false  traitoure, 
Nor  carry  that  ladye  awaye. 

"  For  she  is  come  of  hye  linage. 

And  was  of  a  ladye  bom, 
And  ill  it  beseems  thee — a  false  churls  Sonne 

To  carry  her  hence  to  scome." 

"  Nowe  loud  thou  lyest.  Sir  John  the  knighte, 

Nowe  thou  doest  lye  of  mee  ; 
A  knighte  me  bred,  and  a  ladye  me  bore, 

Soe  never  did  none  by  thee. 

"  But  light  nowe  downe,  my  ladye  faire, 
lyight  downe,  and  hold  my  steed  ; 

While  I  and  this  discourteous  knighte 
Doe  try  this  arduous  deede. 

"  But  light  nowe  downe,  my  deare  ladyS, 
lyight  downe,  and  hold  my  horse  ; 

While  I  and  this  discourteous  knighte 
Doe  trye  our  valours  force." 


50 


trbe  Cbm  of  :ieae 


Fair  Emmeline  sighed,  fair  Emmeline  wept, 

And  aye  her  heart  was  woe, 
While  twixt  her  love  and  the  carlish  knighte 

Past  many  a  baneful  blowe. 

The  Child  of  EUe  hee  fought  soe  well. 
As  his  weapon  he  -nraved  amaine, 

That  soone  he  had  slaine  the  carlish  knighte, 
And  layd  him  upon  the  plaine. 

And  nowe  the  baron  and  all  his  men 

FuU  fast  approached  nye  : 
Ah,  what  may  ladye  Emmeline  doe  ! 

Twere  nowe  no  boote  to  flye. 

Her  lover  he  put  his  home  to  his  mouth, 

And  blew  both  loud  and  shrill, 
And  soone  he  saw  his  owne  merry  men 

Come  ryding  over  the  hiU. 

"  Nowe  hold  thy  hand,  thou  bold  baron, 

I  pray  thee  hold  thy  hand. 
Nor  ruthless  rend  two  gentle  hearts 

Fast  knit  in  true  loves  band. 

"  Thy  daughter  I  have  dearly  loved 

Full  long  and  many  a  da}- ; 
But  with  such  love  as  holy  kirke 

Hath  freelye  said  wee  may. 

"  O  give  consent,  shee  may  be  mine, 

And  bless  a  faithfull  paire  : 
My  lands  and  livings  are  not  small, 

My  house  and  lineage  faire  : 

"  My  mother  she  was  an  earls  daught^, 
And  a  noble  knighte  my  sire  : '  "— 

The  baron  he  frowned  and  tum'd  away 
With  mickle  dole  and  ire. 


^be  Cbil&  of  Bile 


51 


Fair  i^mmeline  sighed,  faire  Binmeline  wept. 

And  did  all  tremblinge  stand  : 
At  length  she  sprang  upon  her  knee, 

And  held  his  lifted  hand. 


"  Pardon,  my  lorde  and  father  deare, 
This  faire  younge  knighte  and  me  : 

Trust  mc,  but  for  the  carlish  knighte, 
I  never  had  fled  from  thee. 

''  Oft  have  you  called  your  ^mmeline 

Your  darling  and  your  joye  ; 
O  !  let  not  then  your  harsh  resolves 

Your  Ktnmeline  destroy e." 

The  baron  he  stroakthis  dark-brown  cheeke, 

And  turned  his  heade  asyde 
To  wipe  awaye  the  starting  teare 

He  proudly  strave  to  hyde. 

In  deepe  revolving  thought  he  stoode, 
And  mused  a  little  space  :         [grounde, 

Then   raised  faire   Emmeline   from   the 
"With  many  a  fond  embrace.* 


*  In  the  Scottish  ballads,  as  we  have  intiniatetl,  the 
affair  has  a  far  less  happy  termination  ;  the  lover  dying- 
of  his  wounds,  and  the  Lady  Margaret  of  a  broken 
heart : 

Lord  William  was  buried  in  St.  Maries  kirk, 

Lady  Marg'ret  in  Maries  quire  ; 
Out  of'^the  ladys  sfrave  grew  a  bonny  red  rose, 

And  out  of  the  knights  a  brier. 


And  they  twa  met,  and  they  twa  plat. 
And  fain  they  wad  be  near ; 

And  a'  the  warld  might  ken  right  weel, 
They  v/ere  twa  lovers  dear. 


But  bye  and  rade  the  black  Douglas, 
And  wow  but  he  was  rough  ! 

For  he  pulled  up  the  bonny  brier. 
And  flang'd  in  St.  Maries  loch. 


Zbc  CbilO  of  Bile 


•  Here  take  her,  Child  of  EHe,"— he  sayd, 
And  gave  her  lillye  white  hand ; — 

"  Here  take  my  deare  and  only  child, 
And  with  her  half  my  land : 

' '  Thy  father  once  mine  honour  wronged 

In  days  of  youthful  pride- 
Do  thou  the  injurye  repayre 

In  fondness  for  thy  bride  ; 

"  And  as  thou  love  her,  and  hold  her  dear^ 
Heaven  prosper  thee  and  thine  ! 

And  nowe  mj'  blessing  wend  wi'  thee. 
My  lovelye  Emmeline  ! " 


Zbc  ^wa  :fiSrotbec0 


53 


/f'J 

ii^. 

^f^ 

■'v^--i 

^^;^ 

-^zi^ 

THE  TWA  BROTHERS.* 

There  were  twa  brothers  at  the  scule. 

And  when  they  got  awa' — 
It  's  "  Will  ye  play  at  the  stane-chucking, 

Or  will  ye  play  at  the  ba', 
Or  will  ye  gae  up  to  yon  hill  head? 

And  there  we  '11  warsell  a  fa'." 

"  I  winna  play  at  the  stane-chucking. 

Nor  will  I  play  at  the  ba'. 
Rut  I  '11  gae  up  to  yon  bonnie  green  hill. 

And  there  we  '11  warsell  a  fa'." 


See  Appendix, 


54 


Q:be  ^wa  JSrotbere 


They  warsled  up,  they  warsled  down, 

Till  John  fell  to  the  ground  ; 
A  dirk  fell  out  of  Williams  pouch, 
And  gave  John  a  deadly  wound. 


"  O  lift  me  up  upon  your  back, 

Tak  me  to  yon  well  fair  ; 
And  wash  my  bluidy  wounds  o'er  and  o'er. 

And  they  '11  ne'er  bleed  nae  mair." 

He  's  lifted  his  brother  upon  his  back, 
Ta'en  him  to  yon  well  fair  ;  [o'er, 

He  'swashed  his  bluidy  wounds  o'er  and 
But  they  bleed  ay  mair  and  mair. 

"  Tak  ye  aff  my  Holland  sark, 

And  rive  it  gair  by  gair, 
And  row  it  in  my  bluidy  wounds. 

And  they  '11  ne'er  bleed  nae  mair." 

He  's  taken  aflf  his  Holland  sark. 

And  torn  it  gair  by  gair ; 
He  's  row  it  in  his  bluidy  wounds. 

But  they  bleed  ay  mair  and  mair. 

"  Tak  now  aflFmy  green  sleiding, 

And  row  me  saftly  in  ; 
And  tak  me  up  to  yon  kirk  style, 

Whare  the  grass  grows  fair  and  green." 


He  's  taken  aflf  the  green  sleiding. 

And  rowed  him  softly  in  ; 
He  's  laid  him  down  by  yon  kirk  style, 

Whare  the  grass  grows  fair  and  green. 


Zbc  tTwa  :©rotber6 


55 


"  What  will  ye  say  to  your  father  dear, 
When  ye  gae  hame  at  e'en  ?  " 

"  I  '11  say  ye  're  lying  at  yon  kirk  style, 
Whare  the  grass  grows  fair  and  green.' 


"  O  no,  O  no,  my  brother  dear, 

O  you  must  not  say  so  ; 
But  say,  that  I  'm  gane  to  a  foreign  land, 

Whare  nae  man  does  me  know." 

When  he  sat  in  his  fathers  chair 
He  grew  baith  pale  and  wan. 

"  O  what  blude  's  that  upon  your  brow? 
O  dear  son,  tell  to  me." 


It  is  the  blude  o'  my  gude  gray  steed- 
He  wadna  ride  wi'  me." 
'  O  thy  steeds  blude  was  ne'er  sae  red. 
Nor  e'er  sae  dear  to  me. 

'  O  what  blude  's  that  upon  your  cheek? 

O  dear  son,  tell  to  me." 
'  It  is  the  blude  of  my  greyhound. 

He  wadna  hunt  for  me." 


"  O  thy  hounds  blude  was  ne'er  sae  red. 

Nor  e'er  sae  dear  to  me  ; 
O  what  blude  's  this  upon  your  hand? 

O  dear  son,  tell  to  me." 


"  It  is  the  blude  of  my  gay  goss  hawk 

He  wadna  flee  for  me." 
"  O  thy  hawks  blude  was  ne'er  sae  red, 

Nor  e'er  sae  dear  to  me : 


56 


^be  ^wa  asrotbcrs 


'  O  what  blude  's  this  upon  your  dirk  ? 

Dear  Willie,  tell  to  me." 
■  It  is  the  blude  of  my  ae  brother, 

O,  dule  and  wae  is  me  ! " 


"  O  what  will  ye  say  to  your  father  ? 

Dear  Willie,  tell  to  me." 
"I  '11  saddle  my  steed,  and  aw^a  I  '11  ride. 

To  dwell  in  some  far  countrie." 

' '  O  when  will  ye  come  hame  again  ? 

Dear  Willie,  tell  to  me." 
"  When  sun  and  mune  leap  on  yon  hill, 

And  that  will  never  be." 

She  turned  hersel'  right  round  about, 
And  her  heart  burst  into  three  : 

"  My  ae  best  son  is  deid  and  gane, 
And  my  tother  ane  I  '11  ne'er  see." 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


Xtbc  aBesaar*6  ©augbtcr  >s£LcAii[^\A\t. 


THE  BEGGAR  S  DAUGHTER  OF  BEDNALL 
GREEV  * 

FITT  THE  FIRST 

Itt  was  a  blind  beggar,  had  long  lost  his  sight, 
,V      He  had  a  faire  daughter  most  pleasint  and  bright : 
And  many  a  gallant  bra\e  suitor  1  ad  shee. 
Tor  none  was  soe  comel>e  as  pretty  Bessee. 

And  though  shee  was  of  favor  most  faire, 
Yett  seeing  she  was  but  a  poor  beggars  heyre 
Of  ancyent  housekeepers  despised  was  shee. 
Whose  sonnes  came  as  suitors  to  prettye  Bessee. 


•  See  Appendi 


S8 


XTbe  JScagar*6  2)augbtcr 


V^bc  3BCQQ^x'6  DauQbtcc  39 


Wherefore  in  great  sorrow  faire  Bessee  did  say, 
"  Good  father,  and  mother,  let  me  goe  away 
To  seeke  out  m.y  fortune,  whereever  itt  bee." 
The  suite  then  they  granted  to  pretty  Bessee. 

Then  Bessee,  that  was  of  bewtye  soe  bright, 
All  cladd  in  gray  russett,  and  late  in  the  night, 
From  father  and  mother  alone  parted  shee  ; 
Who  sighed  and  sobbed  for  pretty  Bessee. 

Shee  went  till  shee  came  to  Stratford-le-Bow ; 
Then  knew  shee  not  whither,  nor  which  way  to  goe 
With  teares  shee  lamented  her  hard  destinie, 
So  sadd  and  soe  heavy  was  pretty  Bessee. 

Shee  kept  on  her  journey  untill  it  was  day, 
And  went  unto  Rumford  along  the  hye  way ; 
Where  at  the  Queenes  armes  entertained  was  shee  : 
So  faire  and  wel  favoured  was  pretty  Bessee. 

Shee  had  not  been  there  one  month  to  an  end, 
But  master  and  mistress  and  all  was  her  friend: 
And  every  brave  gallant,  that  once  did  her  see, 
Was  strait-way  in  love  with  pretty  Bessee. 

Great  gifts  they  did  send  her  of  silver  and  gold. 
And  in  their  songs  daylye  her  love  was  extold ; 
Her  bewtye  was  blazed  in  every  degree  ; 
Soe  faire  and  soe  comelye  was  pretty  Bessee. 

The  younge  men  of  Rumford  in  her  had  their  joy ; 
Shee  shew'd  herself  curteous,  but  never  too  coye  ; 
And  at  their  commandment  still  wold  she  bee ; 
Soe  f^yre  and  soe  comlye  was  pretty  Bessee. 

Foure  suitors  att  once  unto  her  did  goe  ; 
They  craved  her  favor,  but  still  she  sayd  "  Noe  ; 
I  would  not  wish  gentles  to  marry  with  mee." 
Yett  ever  they  honored  pretty  Bessee. 


6o 


Cbe  asc^gar's  Daugbter 


s^SS' 


Zbc  3BcQQnv*6  Baugbter  6i 

The  first  of  them  was  a  gallant  young  knight, 
And  he  came  unto  her  disguisde  in  the  night : 
The  second  a  gentleman  of  good  degree, 
Who  wooed  and  sued  for  pretty  Bessee. 

A  merchant  of  I<ondon,  whose  wealth  was  not  small, 
Was  then  the  third  suitor,  and  proper  withall : 
Her  masters  own  sonne  the  fourth  man  must  bee, 
Who  swore  he  would  dye  for  pretty  Bessee. 

"And,  if  thou  wilt  marry  with  mee,"  quoth  the  knight, 
"  He  make  thee  a  lady  with  joy  and  delight ; 
My  heart's  so  inthralled  by  thy  faire  bewtie. 
Then  grant  me  thy  favour,  my  pretty  Bessee." 

The  gentleman  sayd,  "Come,  marry  with  mee. 
In  silks  and  in  velvets  my  Bessee  shall  bee  : 
My  heart  lives  distressed  :  O  heare  me, ' '  quoth  hee  ; 
"  And  grant  me  thy  love,  my  pretty  Bessee." 

"  I^et  me  be  thy  husband,"  the  merchant  did  say, 
"  Thou  Shalt  live  in  lyondon  both  gallant  and  gay ; 
My  shippes  shall  bring  home  rych  jewels  for  thee. 
And  I  will  for  ever  love  pretty  Bessee." 

Then  Bessee  shee  sighed,  and  thus  shee  did  say, 
"  My  father  and  mother  I  meane  to  obey  ; 
First  gett  theyr  good  will,  and  be  faithfull  to  mee. 
And  you  shall  enjoye  your  pretty  Bessee." 

To  every  one  this  answer  shee  made ; 

Wherefore  unto  her  they  joyfullye  sayd, 

"  This  thing  to  fulfill  wee  all  doe  agree  ; 

But  where  dwells  thy  father,  my  pretty  Bessee  ?  " 

"  My  father,"  quoth  shee,  "  is  plaine  to  be  scene  : 
The  silly  blind  beggar  of  Bednall-greene, 
That  daylye  sits  begg^ing  for  charitie. 
He  is  the  good  father  of  pretty  Bessee. 


62 


^be  :©eggar'6  Bau^bter 


^be  JBcQQ^v'0  Daugbtcr  63 

"  His  markes  and  his  tokens  are  known  full  well ; 
He  alwayes  is  led  with  a  dogg  and  a  bell: 
A  silly  olde  man,  God  knoweth,  is  hee, 
Yett  hee  is  the  father  of  pretty  Bessee." 

"  Nay  then,"  quo'  the  merchant,  "  thou  art  not  for  mee ; 
"  Nor,"  quo'  the  innholder,  "  my  wiffe  shalt  not  bee  :  " 
"  I  lothe,"  sayd  the  gentle,  "  a  beggars  degree, 
And  therefore,  adewe,  my  pretty  Bessee  ! " 

"  "Why  then,"  quoth  the  knight,  "hap  better  or  worse, 
I  waighe  not  true  love  by  the  waight  of  the  pursse, 
And  bewtye  is  bewtye  in  every  degree  ; 
Then  welcome  to  me,  my  pretty  Bessee. 

"With  thee  to  thy  father  forthwith  will  I  goe." 
"Nay  soft,"  quoth  his  kinsmen,  "  it  must  not  be  soe ; 
A  poor  beggars  daughter  noe  ladye  shall  bee, 
Then  take  thy  adewe  of  pretty  Bessee." 

But  soone  after  this,  by  break  of  the  day, 
The  knight  had  from  Rumford  stole  Bessee  away. 
The  younge  men  of  Rumford,  so  sicke  as  may  be, 
Rode  after  to  fetche  againe  pretty  Bessee. 

As  swifte  as  the  winde  to  ride  they  were  scene, 
Untill  they  came  neare  unto  Bednall-greene  ; 
And  as  the  knight  lighted  most  courteouslie 
They  all  fought  against  him  for  pretty  Bessee. 

But  rescew  came  presentlye  over  the  plaine. 

Or  else  the  knight  there  for  his  love  had  been  slaine. 

This  fray  being  ended,  then  strait  he  did  see 

His  kinsmen  come  rayling  at  pretty  Bessee. 

Then  spake  the  blind  beggar,  "  Although  I  bee  poore, 
Yett  rayle  not  against  my  child  at  my  own  doore  : 
Though  shee  be  not  decked  in  velvett  and  pearle, 
Yett  will  I  dropp  angells  with^ou  for  my  girle. 


64 


^bc  :©eaaar's  Bau^btcc 


:v^r^^u}^< 


^ 


XLbc  :J8cggar'6  Dau^bter  65 

"  And  then,  if  my  gold  will  better  her  birthe, 
And  equall  the  gold  that  you  lay  on  the  earth, 
Then  neyther  rayle  nor  grudge  you  to  see 
The  blind  beggars  daughter  a  lady  to  bee. 

'*  Butt  first  I  will  heare,  and  have  it  well  knowne, 
The  gold  that  you  drop  shall  be  all  your  owne." 
With  that  they  replyed,  "  Contented  wee  bee." 
"  Then  here  's,"  quoth  the  beggar,  "  for  pretty  Bessee." 

With  that  an  angell  he  cast  on  the  ground, 

And  dropped  in  angells  full  three  thousand  pound  ; 

And  oftentimes  itt  was  proved  most  plaine, 

For  the  gentlemans  one  the  beggar  dropt  twayne  : 

So  as  the  place,  wherein  they  did  sitt. 

With  gold  it  was  covered  every  whitt ; 

The  gentleman  then  having  dropt  all  his  store, 

Sayd,  "  Now,  beggar,  hold,  for  I  have  noe  more. 

"Thou  hast  fulfilled  thy  promise  arright." 
"  Then  marry,"  quoth  he,  "  my  girle  to  the  knight ; 
And  heere,"  quoth  he,  "I  will  now  thro  we  you  downe 
A  hundred  pounds  more  to  buy  her  a  gowne." 

The  gentlemen  all,  that  this  treasure  had  scene. 
Admired  the  beggar  of  Bednall-greene  ; 
And  those  that  were  her  suitors  before. 
Their  fleshe  for  very  anger  they  tore. 

Thus  was  their  Bessee  matched  to  a  knight, 

And  made  a  ladye  in  others  despite  : 

A  fairer  ladye  there  never  was  scene. 

Than  the  blind  beggars  daughter  of  Bednall-greene, 

But  of  her  sumptuous  marriage  and  feast, 
What  brave  lords  and  knights  thither  were  prest. 
The  second  fitt  shall  set  forth  to  your  sight 
With  marvellous  pleasure  and  wished  delight. 


66 


Ebc  :S6cgQSLV*s  DauQbter 


CTbc  :fBcgQaf6  Daugbter  67 


FITT  THE  SECOND. 

Off  a  blind  beggars  daughter  most  fair  and  bright, 
That  late  was  betrothed  unto  a  younge  knight ; 
All  the  discourse  thereof  you  may  see  ; 
But  now  comes  the  wedding  of  pretty  Bessee. 

Within  a  gallant  palace  most  brave, 
Adorned  with  all  the  cost  they  could  have, 
This  wedding  was  kept  most  sumptuouslie. 
And  all  for  the  love  of  pretty  Bessee. 

All  kinds  of  dainties,  and  delicates  sweete 
Were  brought  to  their  banquet,  as  it  was  thought  meete  : 
Partridge,  and  plover,  and  venison  most  free, 
Against  the  brave  wedding  of  pretty  Bessee. 

This  wedding  thro'  England  was  spread,  by  report, 
So  that  a  great  number  did  thither  resort 
Of  nobles  and  gentles  in  every  degree ; 
And  all  for  the  fame  of  pretty  Bessee. 

To  church  then  went  this  gallant  younge  knight ; 
His  bride  followed  after,  a  ladye  most  bright, 
With  troopes  of  ladyes,  the  like  nere  was  scene 
As  went  with  sweete  Bessee  of  Bednall-greene. 

This  marryage  being  solemnized  then. 
With  musicke  performed  by  the  skilfuUest  men, 
The  nobles  and  gentles  sate  downe  at  that  tyde, 
E)ach  one  beholding  the  beautiful  bryde. 

But,  after  the  sumptuous  dinner  was  done, 

To  talke,  and  to  reason  a  number  begunn  : 

To  talke  of  the  blind  beggars  daughter  most  bright, 

And  what  with  his  daughter  he  gave  to  the  knight. 


68 


Cbe  3BcQQSLV's  Daugbtcr 


trbe  3Be^gar'0  5)augbtcr  69 

Then  spake  the  nobles,  "Much  marveil have  wee, 
The  jolly  blind  beggar  wee  cannot  here  see." 
"  My  lords,"  quoth  the  bride,  "my  father  's  so  base, 
Hee  is  loth  with  his  presence  these  states  to  disgrace." 

"  The  prayse  of  a  woman  in  questyon  to  bringe 
Before  her  own  face  were  a  flattering  thinge  ; 
Yett  wee  thinke  thy  fathers  baseness,"  quoth  they, 
"  Might  by  thy  bewtye  bee  cleane  put  away." 

They  had  noe  sooner  these  pleasant  words  spoke. 
But  in  comes  the  beggar  cladd  in  a  silke  cloke  : 
A  faire  velvet  capp,  and  a  fether  had  hee  : 
And  nowe  a  musicyan  forsooth  he  would  bee. 

Hee  had  a  daintye  lute  under  his  arme, 
Hee  touched  the  strings,  which  made  such  a  charme, 
Sayd,  "  Please  you  to  heare  any  musicke  of  mee, 
A  song  I  will  sing  you  of  pretty  Bessee." 

With  that  his  lute  hee  twanged  straitway, 
And  thereon  begann  most  sweetlye  to  play  ; 
And  after  that  lessons  were  playd  two  or  three, 
Hee  straynd  out  this  song  most  delicatelie. 

"  A  poore  beggars  daughter  did  dwell  on  a  greene, 
Who  for  her  bewtye  might  well  bee  a  queene  : 
A  blithe  bonny  lasse,  and  daintye  was  shee, 
And  many  one  called  her  pretty  Bessee. 

"  Her  father  hee  had  noe  goods,  nor  noe  lands. 
But  begged  for  a  penny  all  day  with  his  hands  ; 
And  yett  for  her  marriage  hee  gave  thousands  three. 
And  still  hee  hath  somewhat  for  pretty  Bessee. 

"  And  if  any  one  her  birth  doe  disdaine. 
Her  father  is  ready,  with  might  and  with  maine, 
To  proove  shee  is  come  of  a  noble  degree  : 
Therefore  let  none  floute  att  my  prettye  Bessee." 


70 


^be  JSc9aar*6  Baugbtcr 


XLbc  3Beggar'6  ©augbtcr  71 

with  that  the  lords  and  companye  round 
With  hearty  laughter  were  readye  to  swound : 
Att  last  said  the  lords,  "  Full  well  wee  may  see, 
The  bride  and  the  beggar  's  behoulden  to  thee." 

With  that  the  bride  all  blushing  did  rise, 

With  the  faire  water  all  in  her  brighte  eyes  : 

"  Pardon  my  father,  grave  nobles,"  quoth  shee, 

"  That  throughe  blind  affection  thus  doteth  on  mee." 

"  If  this  bee  thy  father,"  the  nobles  did  say, 
"  Well  may  hee  bee  proud  of  this  happy  day  ; 
Yett  by  his  countenance  well  may  wee  see. 
His  birth  with  his  fortune  did  never  agree  ; 

"  And  therefore,  blind  beggar,  wee  pray  thee  bewray, 
(And  looke  that  the  truth  to  us  thou  doe  say) 
Thy  birth  and  thy  parentage,  what  itt  may  bee, 
For  the  love  that  thou  bearest  to  pretty  Bessee." 

"Then  give  me  leave,  nobles  and  gentles,  each  one, 
A  song  more  to  sing,  and  then  I  '11  begone, 
And  if  that  I  do  not  winn  your  good  report, 
Then  doe  not  give  me  a  groat  for  my  sport. 

"  Sir  Simon  de  Montfort  my  subject  shall  bee  : 
Once  chiefe  of  all  the  great  barons  was  hee, 
Yett  fortune  so  cruelle  this  lorde  did  abase, 
Nowe  loste  and  forgotten  are  hee  and  his  race. 

"  When  the  barons  in  armes  did  King  Henrye  oppose. 
Sir  Simon  de  Montfort  their  leader  they  chose  : 
A  leader  of  courage  undaunted  was  hee, 
And  oft-times  hee  made  their  enemyes  flee. 

"  At  length  in  the  battle  on  Kveshame  plaine 
The  barons  were  routed,  and  Montfort  was  slaine  : 
Most  fatall  that  battel  did  prove  unto  thee, 
Though  thou  wast  not  borne  then,  my  pretty  Bessee  ! 


72 


Ebe  3Begaar*6  Daugbter 


Zbc  3BcQQ^v'B  DauQbter  73 

"  Along  with  the  nobles,  that  fell  at  that  tyde, 
His  eldest  Sonne  Henrye,  who  fought  by  his  side, 
Was  felde  by  a  blowe,  hee  receivde  in  the  fight : 
A  blowe  that  deprivde  him  for  ever  of  sight. 

"  Among  the  dead  bodyes  all  lifelesse  hee  laye. 
Till  evening  drewe  on  of  the  following  daye, 
When  by  a  younge  ladye  discovered  was  hee  ; — 
And  this  was  thy  mother,  my  pretty  Bessee. 

"  A  barons  faire  daughter  stept  forth  in  the  night. 
To  search  for  her  father,  who  fell  in  the  fight, 
And  seeing  younge  Montfort,  where  gasping  hee  laye, 
Was  moved  with  pitye,  and  brought  him  awaye. 

"  In  secrette  shee  nurst  him,  and  swaged  his  paine, 
While  hee  through  the  realme  was  beleevd  to  be  slaine  : 
At  length  his  faire  bride  shee  consented  to  bee. 
And  made  him  glad  father  of  pretty  Bessee. 

"  And  nowe  lest  oure  foes  our  lives  sholde  betraye, 
Wee  clothed  ourselves  in  beggars  arraye  : 
Her  jewelles  shee  solde,  and  hither  came  wee  : 
All  our  comfort  and  care  was  our  pretty  Bessee. 

"  And  here  have  wee  lived  in  fortunes  despite. 
Though  poore,  yett  contented  with  humble  delighte  : 
Full  forty  winters  thus  have  I  beene 
A  silly  blind  beggar  of  Bednall-greene. 

"  And  here,  noble  lordes,  is  ended  the  song 
Of  one,  that  once  to  your  owne  ranke  did  belong ; 
And  thus  have  you  learned  a  secrette  from  mee, 
That  ne'er  had  been  knowne,  but  for  pretty  Bessee." 

Now  when  the  faire  companye  every  one, 

Had  heard  the  strange  tale  in  the  song  hee  had  showne, 

They  all  were  amazed,  as  well  they  might  bee, 

Both  at  the  blinde  beggar,  and  the  pretty  Bessee. 


74 


Zbc  Mcggav^s  ©augbter 


With  that  the  faire  bride  they  all  did  embrace, 
Sajdng,  "  Sure  thou  art  come  of  an  honourable 
Thy  father  likewise  is  of  noble  degree,  [race, 

And  thou  art  well  worthy  a  lady  to  bee." 


Thus  was  the  feast  ended  with  joye  and  delighte, 
A  bridegroome  most  happy  was  the  younge 
In  joy  and  felicitie  long  lived  hee,  [knighte, 

All  with  his  faire  ladye,  the  pretty  Bessee. 


IRobln  (SooDsjfcllow 


75 


From  Oberon  in  fairye  land, 

The  king  cf  ghosts  and  shadowes  there, . 
Mad  Robin  I,  at  his  command, 
Am  sent  to  viewe  the  night-sports  here. 
What  revell  route 
Is  kept  about, 
In  every  corner  where  I  go, 

I  will  o'ersee,  and  merry  bee, 
And  make  good  sport,  with  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

More  swift  than  lightening  can  I  flye 

About  this  aery  welkin  soone. 
And,  in  a  minutes  space,  descrye 
Each  thing  that 's  done  belowe  the  moone, 
There  's  not  a  hag 
Or  ghost  shall  wag, 
Or  cry,  ware  Goblins  !  where  I  go  ; 
But  Robin  I  their  feates  will  spy, 
And  send  them  home,  with  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 


See  Appendix, 


76 


IRobin  <5ooD*ycllow 


Whene'er  such  wanderers  I  meete, 

As    from    their  night-sports  they  trudge 
With  counterfeiting  voice  I  greete,     [home  ; 
And  call  them  on,  with  me  to  roam 
Thro'  woods,  thro'  lakes, 
Thro'  bogs,  thro'  brakes ; 
Or  else,  unseene,  with  them  I  go, 

All  in  the  nicke,  to  play  some  tricke 
And  frolicke  it,  with  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 
Sometimes  I  meete  them  like  a  man  ; 

Sometimes,  an  ox,  sometimes,  a  hound ; 
And  to  a  horse  I  turn  me  can  ; 
To  trip  and  trot  about  them  round. 
But  if,  to  ride. 
My  backe  they  stride. 
More  swift  than  winde  away  I  go. 

Ore  hedge  and  lands,  thro'  pools  and 
I  whirry,  laughing,  ho,  ho,  ho !         [ponds 
When  lads  and  lasses  merry  be, 

With  possets  and  with  juncates  fine, 
Unseene  of  all  the  companj', 
I  eat  their  cakes  and  sip  their  wine  ; 
And  to  make  sport, 
I  snore  and  snort ; 
And  out  the  candles  I  do  blow  : 

The  maids  I  kiss ;  they  shrieke — Who  's 
I  answer  naught,  but  ho,  ho,  ho  !        [this  ? 
Yet  now  and  then,  the  maids  to  please, 

At  midnight  I  card  up  their  wool ; 
And  while  they  sleepe  and  take  their  ease, 
With  wheel,  to  threads,  their  flax  I  pull. 
I  gfrind  at  mill 
Their  malt  up  still ; 
I  dress  their  hemp,  I  spin  their  tow ; 
If  any  'wake,  and  would  me  take, 
I  wend  me,  laughing,  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 


IRobln  (5oo&=3felIow 


77 


When  house  or  harth  doth  sluttish  lye, 
I  pinch  the  maidens  black  and  blue  ; 
The  bed-clothes  from  the  bedd  pull  I 
And  lay  them  naked  all  to  view. 
'Twixt  sleepe  and  wake, 
I  do  them  take. 
And  on  the  key-cold  floor  them  throw. 

If  out  they  cry,  then  forth  I  fly, 
And  loudly  laugh  out,  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 
When  any  need  to  borrowe  aught. 

We  lend  them  what  they  do  require ; 
And  for  the  use  demand  we  nought ; 
Our  owne  is  all  we  do  desire. 
If  to  repay, 
They  do  delay. 
Abroad  amongst  them  then  I  go. 

And  night  by  night,  I  them  affright 
With  pinchings,  dreames,  and  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 
When  lazie  queans  have  nought  to  do. 

But  study  how  to  cog  and  lye  ; 

To  make  debate  and  mischief  too, 

'Twixt  one  another  secretlye  : 

I  marke  their  gloze. 

And  it  disclose, 

To  them  whom  they  have  wronged  so  ; 

When  I  have  done,  I  get  me  gone. 
And  leave  them  scolding,  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 
When  men  do  traps  and  engins  set 

In  loope  holes  were  the  vermine  creepe. 
Who  from  their  foldes  and  houses,  get 
Their  duckes  and  geese,  their  lambes  and 
I  spy  the  gin,  [sheepe  : 

And  enter  in, 
And  seeme  a  vermine  taken  so  : 

But  when  they  there  approach  me  neare, 
I  leap  out  laughing,  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 


78 


•Robin  (3oods#eUow 


By  wells  and  rills,  in  meadowes  greene, 
We  "nightly  dance  our  hey-day  guise  ; 
And  to  our  fairye  king  and  queene 
We  chant  our  moon-light  minstrelsies. 
When  larks  gin  sing, 
Away  we  fling, 
And  babes  new  borne  steale  as  we  go, 

And  elfe  in  bed  we  leave  instead, 
And  wend  us  laughing,  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

From  hag-bred  Merlin's  time  have  I 

Thus  nightly  revelled  to  and  fro  ; 

And  for  my  pranks  men  call  me  by 

The  name  of  Robin  Good-fellow. 

Fiends,  ghosts,  and  sprites, 

Who  haunt  the  nights. 

The  hags  and  goblins  do  me  know  ; 

And  beldames  old  my  feates  have  told ; 
So  Vale,  Vale ;  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 


Sir  ipatdcft  Spcns 


79 


The  king  sits  in  Dunfermline  town, 
Drinking  the  blude-red  wine : 

"O  where  will  I  get  a  skeely  skipper 
To  sail  this  new  ship  of  mine  ?  " 

O  up  and  spake  an  eldern  knight. 
Sat  at  the  kings  right  knee  : 

*'  Sir  Patrick  Spens  is  the  best  sailor 
That  ever  sailed  the  sea." 

Our  king  has  written  a  braid  letter, 
And  sealed  it  with  his  hand, 

And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 
Was  walking  on  the  strand. 


See  Appendix. 


8o 


Sir  Patrick  Spens 


"To  Noroway,  to  Noroway, 

To  Noroway,  o'er  the  faem  ; 
The  kings  daughter  of  Xoroway , 

'T  is  thou  maun  bring  her  hame  !  " 

The  first  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read, 

Sae  loud  loud  laughed  he  ; 
The  neist  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read. 

The  tear  blindit  his  e'e. 

"  O  wha  is  this  has  done  this  deed, 

And  tauld  the  king  o'  me, 
To  send  us  out  at  this  time  o'  the  year, 

To  sail  upon  the  sea? 

"  Be  it  wind,  be  it  weet,  be  it  hail,  be  it  sleet, 

Our  ship  must  sail  the  faem  ; 
The  kings  daughter  of  Xoroway 

'T  is  we  must  fetch  her  hame." 

They  hoysed  their  sails  on  Monenday  mom, 

Wi'  a'  the  speed  they  may  : 
They  hae  landed  in  Noroway 

Upon  a  Wodensday. 
They  hadna  been  a  week,  a  week 

In  Noroway,  but  twae. 
When  that  the  lords  o'  Noroway 

Began  aloud  to  say  : 

"  Ye  Scottishmen  spend  a'  our  kings  gowd 

And  a'  our  queenis  fee. ' ' — 
"  Ye  lie,  ye  lie  ye  liars  loud  ! 

Fu'  loud  I  hear  ye  lie  ! 
"  For  I  hae  brought  as  much  white  monie 

As  gane  my  men  and  me,  [gowd 

And  I  hae  brought  a  half-fou  o'  gude  red 

Out  owre  the  sea  wi'  me. 
"Make  ready,  make  ready,  my  merrymen 

Our  gude  ship  sails  the  morn."—         [a'  ! 


Sir  Patrick  Spcns 


^ 


i>*^5;ai-. 


"  Now,  ever  alake  !  my  master  dear, 

I  fear  a  deadly  storm. 
"  I  saw  the  new  m^oon,  late  yestreen, 

Wi'  the  auld  moon  in  her  arm  ; 
And  if  we  gang  to  sea,  master, 

I  fear  we  '11  come  to  harm." 

They  hadna  sailed  a  league,  a  league, 
A  league  but  barely  three,  [loud, 

When  the  lift  grew  dark,  and  the  wiiid  blew 
And  gurly  grew  the  sea. 

The  ankers  brak,  and  the  topmasts  lap, 

It  was  sic  ^  deadly  storm  ; 
And  the  waves  came  o'er  the  broken  ship 

Till  a'  her  sides  were  torn. 
"  O  where.will  I  get  a  gude  sailor 

To  take  my  helm  in  hand, 
Till  I  get  up  to  the  tall  topmast 

To  see  if  I  can  spy  land  ?  " 

"  O  here  am  I,  a  sailor  gude, 

To  take  the  helm  in  hand, 
Till  you  go  up  to  the  tall  topmast — 

But  I  fear  you  '11  ne'er  spy  land." 

He  hadna  gane  a  step,  a  step, 

A  step,  but  barely  ane, 
When  a  boult  flew  out  of  our  goodly  ship. 

And  the  salt  sea  it  came  in. 

"  Gae  fetch  a  web  o'  the  silken  claith. 

Another  o'  the  twine, 
And  wap  them  into  our  ships  side. 

And  letna  the  sea  come  in." 
They  fetched  a  web  o'  the  silken  claith, 

Another  o'  the  twine,  [side ; 

And  they  wapped  them  roun'  the  gude  ships 

But  still  the  sea  came  in. 


82 


Sir  |>atrich  Spen6 


O  laith  laith  were  our  gude  Scots  lords 

To  weet  their  cork-heeled  shoon, 
But  lang  or  a'  the  play  was  played 

They  wat  their  hats  aboon  ! 
And  mony  was  the  feather  bed 

That  floated  on  the  faem  ; 
And  mony  was  the  gude  lords  son 

That  never  mair  came  hame  ! 
The  ladyes  wrang  their  fingers  white — 

The  maidens  tore  their  hair ; 
A'  for  the  sake  of  their  true  loves— 

For  them  they  11  see  na  mair. 
O  lang  lang  may  the  ladyes  sit, 

Wi'  their  fans  into  their  hand, 
Before  they  see  Sir  Patrick  Spens 

Come  sailing  to  the  strand  ! 
And  lang  lang  may  the  maidens  sit, 

Wi'  their  gowd  kaims  in  their  hair, 
A'  waiting  for  their  ain  dear  loves — 

For  them  they  '11  see  na  mair  ! 
O  forty  miles  oflF  Aberdeen 

'T  is  fifty  fathoms  deep, 
And  there  lies  gude  Sir  Patrick  Spens 

Wi'  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feet ! 


0H  /IBorrlcc 


83 


*  See  Appendix. 


84 


<3U  Aorrice 


"  Whar  sail  I  get  a  bonny  boy, 
That  will  win  hose  and  shoen, 

That  will  gae  to  I^ord  Bamards  ha', 
And  bid  his  lady  come  ? 

"  And  ye  maun  rin  my  errand,  Willie, 

And  ye  maun  rin  wi'  speid  ; 
When  ither  boys  gang  on  their  feet, 

Ye  sail  ha'  prancing  steid." 

"  O,  no !  O,  no !  my  master  deir, 

I  dar  na  for  my  life  ; 
I  '11  no  gae  to  the  bauld  barons. 

For  to  triest  furth  his  wife." 

"My  bird  Willie,  my  boy  Willie, 

My  deir  Willie  ! "  he  said, 
"  How  can  ye  strive  against  the  streim? 

For  I  sail  be  obeyd." 

"Bot  O  my  master  deir,"  he  cryd, 
"  In  grene  wode  ye  're  j-our  lane  ; 

Gi'  owr  sic  thochts  I  wold  ye  red, 
For  feir  ye  sold  be  tane." 

"Haste  !  haste !  I  say,  gae  to  the  ha', 
Bid  her  come  here  wi'  speid  : 

If  ye  refuse  my  hie  command, 
I  '11  gar  your  body  bleid. 

"  Gae  bid  her  tak  this  gay  mantel, 

'T  is  a'  gowd  but  the  hem  ; 
Bid  her  come  to  the  gfude  grene  wode, 

Ein  by  hersel  alane  ; 

"  And  there  it  is,  a  silken  sarke. 
Her  ain  hand  sewd  the  sleeve  ; 

And  bid  her  come  to  Gil  Morrice, 
Speir  nae  bauld  barons  leive." 


(5il  /IRorrice 


85 


"  Yes  !  I  will  gae  your  black  errand, 

Thoch  it  be  to  your  cost : 
Sen  ye  by  me  will  nae  be  wamd, 

In  it  ye  sail  find  frost. 

"  The  baron  he  is  a  man  o'  micht, 

He  neir  cold  bide  to  taunt ; 
And  ye  will  see,  before  its  nicht, 

Sma'  cause  ye  ha'  to  vaunt. 

"  And  sen  I  maun  your  errand  rin, 

Sae  sair  against  my  will, 
I  'se  mak  a  vow,  and  keep  it  trow, 

It  sail  be  done  for  ill !  " 

When  he  cam  to  the  broken  brig, 
He  bent  his  bow  and  swam  ; 

And  when  he  cam  to  grass  growing, 
Set  down  his  feet  and  ran. 

And  when  he  cam  to  Barnards  yeat, 

Wold  neither  chap  nor  ca', 
Bot  set  his  bent  bow  to  his  breist, 

And  lichtly  lap  the  wa'. 

He  wold  na  tell  the  man  his  errand, 

Thoch  he  stude  at  the  yeat ; 
Bot  streight  into  the  ha'  he  cam, 

Whar  they  were  set  at  meat. 

"  Hail !  hail !  my  gentle  sire  and  dame  I 

My  message  winna  wait, — 
Dame,  ye  maun  to  the  grene  wode  gae. 

Afore  that  it  be  late. 

"Ye  're  bidden  tak  this  gay  mantel, 

'T  is  a'  gowd  bot  the  hem  ; 
Ye  maun  haste  to  the  gude  grene  wode 

Ein  by  yoursell  alane. 


86 


(3il  Aocrice 


"  And  there  it  is,  a  silken  saxk, 

Your  ain  hand  sewd  the  sleive  : 
Ye  maun  gae  speik  to  Gil  Morrice, 

Speir  nae  bauld  barons  leive." 
The  lady  stamped  wi'  her  foot, 

And  winked  wi'  her  eie  ; 
Bot  a'  that  shee  cold  say  or  do, 

Forbidden  he  wold  nae  be. 
"  It 's  surely  to  my  bower- woman, 

It  neir  cold  be  to  me." — 
"  I  brocht  it  to  I^ord  Barnards  lady, 

I  trow  that  ye  be  shee. " 
Then  up  and  spak  the  vrylie  nurse 

(The  bairn  upon  her  knee), 
"  If  it  be  come  from  GU  Morrice, 

It 's  deir  welcum  to  me." 
"  Ye  lie,  ye  lie,  ye  filthy  nurse, 

Sae  loud  I  heir  ye  lie  ; 
I  brocht  it  to  lyord  Barnards  lady, 

I  trow  ye  be  nae  shee." 
Then  up  and  spake  the  bauld  baron, 

An  angry  man  was  he  : 
He  has  tane  the  table  wi'  his  foot, 

Sae  has  he  wi'  his  knee, 
Till  siller  cup  and  mazer  dish 

In  flinders  he  gard  flie. 
"  Gae  bring  a  robe  of  5'our  cleiding, 

Wi  a'  the  haste  ye  can  ; 
And  I  '11  gae  to  the  gude  grene  wode. 

And  speik  wi  your  lemman." 

"  O  bide  at  hame  now,  Ix)rd  Barnard  ! 

I  warde  ye  bide  at  hame  ; 
Neir  wyte  a  man  for  violence, 

Wha  neir  w>'te  ye  wi'  nane ! " 


<5fl  /IBorrfce 


87 


Gil  Morrice  sat  in  the  grene  wode 

He  whistled  and  he  sang  : 
"  O,  what  meins  a'  the  folk  coming? 

My  mother  tarries  long."  * 

The  baron  to  the  grene  wode  cam, 

Wi'  meikle  dule  and  care  ; 
And  there  he  first  spyed  Gil  Morrice 

Kaming  his  yellow  hair. 

"  Nae  wonder,  nae  wonder,  Gil  Morrice, 

My  lady  loes  thee  weil ; 
The  fairest  part  of  my  body 

Is  blacker  than  thy  heil. 

"  Yet  neir  the  less  now,  Gil  Morrice, 

For  a'  thy  great  bewtie. 
Ye  '11  rew  the  day  ye  eir  was  bom  ; 

That  heid  shall  gae  wi'  me  !  " 


*  The  following  are  the  stanzas  alluded  to  in  the 
Introductory  Remarks.  They  are,  obviously,  emen- 
dations by  "  a  modern  hand  "  : 

His  hair  was  like  the  threeds  of  gold, 

Drawn  frae  Minervas  loome  : 
His  lippes  like  roses  drapping  dew; 

His  breath  was  a'  perfume. 

His  brow  was  like  the  mountain  snae 

Gilt  by  the  morning  beam  : 
His  cheeks  like  living  roses  glow: 

His  een  like  azure  stream. 

The  boy  was  clad  in  robes  of  grene, 

Sweete  as  the  infant  spring  : 
And  like  the  mavis  on  the  bush, 

He  gart  the  vallies  ring. 

The  following  verse  occurs  after  the  line  "  Kaming 
his  yellow  hair  "  : 

That  sweetly  wavd  around  his  face. 

That  face  beyond  compare : 
He  sang  sae  sweet  it  might  dispel 

A'  rage  but  fell  despair. 


88 


0fl  flborrfce 


Now  he  has  drawn  his  trusty  brand, 
And  slaided  owr  the  strae  ; 

And  throuch  Gil  Morrice  fair  body 
He  gard  the  cauld  iron  gae. 

And  he  has  tane  Gil  Morrice  heid, 

And  set  it  on  a  speir ; 
The  meinest  man  in  a'  his  train, 

Has  gotten  that  heid  to  beir. 

And  he  has  taen  Gil  Morrice  up, 
I^d  him  across  his  steid ; 

The  meinest  man  in  a'  his  train, 
Has  gotten  that  steid  to  lede. 

The  lady  on  the  castle  wa' 
Beheld  baith  dale  and  down  ; 

And  there  she  saw  Gil  Morrice  heid 
Cum  trailing  to  the  toun. 

"  Better  I  loe  that  bluidy  heid, 

Bot  and  that  yellow  hair, 
Than  I^rd  Barnard  and  a'  his  lands, 

As  they  lie  here  and  there." 

And  she  has  taen  her  Gil  Morrice, 

And  kissed  baith  cheik  and  chin  ; 
•  I  was  ance  as  fou  o'  Gil  Morrice, 
As  the  hip  is  o'  the  stane. 

"  I  bore  ye  in  my  fathers  house, 
Wi'  meikle  sin  and  shame  ; 

I  brocht  ye  up  in  the  grene  wode, 
Under  the  heavy  rain. 

"  Oft  have  I  by  thy  craddle  sitten, 
And  fondly  seen  thee  sleip  ; 

But  now  I  maun  gae  'bout  thy  grave 
A  mothers  teirs  to  weep  !  " 


(3n  /IRordce 


89 


Again  she  kissd  his  bluidy  cheik, 

Ag^ain  his  bluidy  chin  ; 
"  O  better  I  loed  my  son  Morrice, 

Than  a'  my  kyth  and  kin  ! " 

"  Awa,  awa,  ye  ill  woman, 

An  ill  dethe  may  ye  die  ! 
Gin  I  had  kend  he  was  your  son, 

He  had  neir  been  slayne  by  me  ! " 

"  Obraid  me  not,  my  lord  Barnard, 

Obraid  me  not  for  shame  ! 
Wi'  that  same  speir,  O  perce  my  heart, 

And  save  me  frae  my  pain  ! 

"  Since  naething  but  Gil  Morrice  head 

Thy  jealous  rage  cold  quell, 
I,et  that  same  hand  now  tak  her  lyfe, 

That  neir  to  thee  did  ill. 

"  To  me  nae  after  days  nor  nichts 

Will  eir  be  saft  or  kind ; 
I  '11  fill  the  air  wi'  heavy  sichs, 

And  greit  till  I  be  blind." 

"  EJneuch  of  bluid  by  me  's  been  spilt, 
Seek  not  your  dethe  frae  me  ; 

I  'd  rather  far  it  had  been  mysel, 
Than  either  him  or  thee. 

"  Wi'  hopeless  wae  I  hear  your  plaint, 

Sair,  sair,  I  rue  the  deed — 
That  eir  this  cursed  hand  of  mine 

Sold  gar  his  body  bleid ! 

"  Dry  up  your  teirs,  my  winsome  dame, 
They  neir  can  heal  the  wound ; 

Ye  see  his  heid  upon  the  spier. 
His  hearts  bluid  on  the  ground. 


go 


(5il  flborrfce 


J 


"  I  curse  the  hand  that  did  the  deid, 
The  heart  that  thocht  the  ill, 

The  feet  that  bare  me  wi'  sic  speid, 
The  comlie  youth  to  kill. 

"  I  '11  aye  lament  for  Gil  Morrice, 

As  gin  he  was  my  ain  ; 
I  '11  neir  forget  the  dreiry  day 

On  which  the  youth  was  slain." 


Sir  Bl&ingar 


91 


SIR  AIvDINGAR.* 

Our  king  hee  kept  a  false  stew^rde, 

Sir  Aldingar  they  him  call : 
A  falser  stewarde  than  hee  was  one, 

Servde  not  in  bower  nor  hall. 

Hee  wolde  have  layne  by  our  comelye  queene, 
Her  d-eere  worshippe  to  betraye  : 

Our  queene  shee  was  a  good  woni3,n, 
And  evermore  said  him  naye. 

Sir  Aldingar  was  wrothe  in  his  mind, 
"With  her  hee  was  never  content, 

Till  traiterous  meanes  hee  colde  devyse, 
In  a  fyer  to  have  her  brent. 


•  See  Appendix. 


92 


Sir  aiOfngar 


ill  f^i 


J 


There  came  a  lazar  to  the  Kings  gate, 

A  lazar  both  blinde  and  lame  : 
Hee  tooke  the  lazar  upon  his  backe, 

Him  on  the  Queenes  bedd  has  layne. 

"  I^ye  still,  lazar,  wheras  thou  lyest, 
I<ook  thou  goe  not  hence  away  ; 

He  make  thee  a  whole  man  and  a  sound 
In  two  howers  of  the  day." 

Then  went  him  forth  Sir  Aldingar, 

And  hyed  him  to  our  king  : — 
"  If  I  might  have  grace,  as  I  have  space, 

Sad  tydings  I  could  bring." 

"  Say  on,  say  on.  Sir  Aldingar, 

Say  on  the  soothe  to  mee." 
"  Our  queene  hath  chosen  a  newe,  newelove, 

And  shee  will  have  none  of  thee ! 

"  If  shee  had  chosen  a  right  good  knight. 
The  lesse  had  beene  her  shame  ; 

But  shee  hath  chose  her  a  lazar  man, 
A  lazar  both  blinde  and  lame." 

"  If  this  bee  true,  thou  Aldingar, 

The  tyding  thou  tellest  to  mee. 
Then  will  I  make  thee  a  rich  rich  knight,! 

Rich  both  of  golde  and  fee. 

"But  if  it  be  false.  Sir  Aldingar, 

As  God  no  we  grant  it  bee  ! 
Thy  body,  I  sweare  by  the  holye  rood, 

Shall  hang  on  the  gallowes  tree." 

Hee  brought  our  king  to  the  Queenes  cham- 
And  opend  to  him  the  dore.  [h&r, 

"  A  lordly e  love,"  King  Harry  says, 
"  For  our  queene  dame  Elinore ! 


sir  Bl&tngar 


■■■-^  X  V  xjx\oxa.  X 


^ALIFOR^ 


"  If  thou  were  a  man,  as  thou  art  none, 
Heere  on  my  sword  thou  'st  dye  ; 

But  a  payre  of  new  gallowes  shall  bee  built, 
And  there  shalt  thou  hang  on  hye." 

Forthe  then  hyed  our  king,  I  wysse, 

And  an  angry  man  was  hee  ; 
And  soon  hee  found  Queene  Elinore, 

That  bride  so  bright  of  blee. 

"  Nowe  God  you  save,  our  queene,  madame, 

And  Christ  you  save  and  see  ! 
Heere  you  have  chosen  a  newe  newe  love, 

And  you  will  have  none  of  mee  ! 

"  If  you  had  chosen  a  right  good  knight, 
The  lesse  had  been  your  shame  ; 

But  you  have  chose  you  a  lazar  man, 
A  lazar  both  blinde  and  lame  ; 

"  Therfore  a  fyer  there  shall  bee  built. 

And  brent  all  shalt  thou  bee  ! " 
Nowe  out  alacke  ! "  sayd  our  com  elye  queene, 

"  Sir  Aldingar  's  false  to  mee." 

"Nowe  out  alacke !"  sayd  our  comelye  queene, 
"  My  hart  with  g^efe  will  brast : 

I  had  thought  swevens  had  never  been  true ; 
I  have  proved  them  true  at  last. 

"  I  dreamt  in  my  sweven  on  Thursday  eve. 

In  my  bed  wheras  I  laye. 
I  dreamt  a  grype  and  a  grimlie  beast 

Had  carry ed  my  crown  e  awaye : 

"  My  gorgett  and  my  kirtle  of  golde, 

And  all  my  faire  head  geere  ; 
And  hee  wolde  worrye  me  with  his  tush 

And  to  his  nest  y-beare. 


94 


Sir  BIDingar 


"  Saving  there  came  a  little  gray  hawke, 

A  merlin  him  they  call, 
Which  untill  the  grounde  did  strike  the  grype, 

That  dead  hee  downe  did  fall. 


"  Giffe  I  were  a  man,  as  nowe  I  am  none, 

A  battell  wolde  I  prove. 
To  fight  with  that  traitor  Aldingar  ; 

Att  him  I  cast  my  glove. 

"  Bot  seeing  Ime  able  noe  battell  to  make, 

^ly  liege,  grant  mee  a  knight 
To  fighte  with  that  traitor  Sir  Aldingar, 

To  maintaine  mee  in  my  righte." 

"  Nowe  forty  dayes  I  will  give  thee. 
To  seeke  thee  a  knight  therin  : 

If  thou  finde  not  a  knight  in  forty  dayes 
Thy  bodye  it  must  brenn." 

Then  shee  sent  east,  and  shee  sent  west, 

By  north  and  south  bedeene  ; 
Bot  never  a  champion  colde  shee  finde, 

Wolde  fighte  with  that  knight  soe  keene. 

Nowe  twenty  dayes  were  spent  and  gone, 
Noe  helpe  there  might  bee  had  : 

Many  a  teare  shed  our  comelye  queene 
And  aye  her  hart  was  sad. 

Then  came  one  of  the  Queenes  dams&Ues, 

And  knelt  upon  her  knee ; — 
"  Cheare  up,  cheare  up,  my  gracious  dame, 

I  trust  yet  helpe  may  bee  : 

"  And  heere  I  will  make  mine  avowe, 
And  with  the  same  mee  binde  ; 

That  never  will  I  return  to  thee, 
Till  I  some  helpe  may  finde  ! " 


Sir  ^Ibingar 


^5 


Then  forthe  she  rode  on  a  faire  palfriye 

O'er  hill  and  dale  about ; 
Bot  never  a  champion  colde  shee  finde, 

Wolde  fighte  with  that  knight  so  stout. 

And  nowe  the  daye  drewe  on  apace, 
When  our  good  queene  must  dye  : 

All  woe-begone  was  that  faire  dams^lle, 
When  she  found  no  helpe  was  nye. 

All  woe-begone  was  that  faire  dams^lle, 
And  the  salt  teares  fell  from  her  eye  ; 

When  lo  !  as  shee  rode  by  a  rivers  side, 
She  mette  with  a  tinye  boye. 

A  tinye  boye  shee  mette,  God  wot, 

All  clad  in  mantle  of  golde  : 
Hee  seemed  noe  more  in  mans  liken^sse. 

Then  a  childe  of  four  yeere  old. 

"  Why  grieve  you,  damselle  faire,"  he  sayd, 
"And  what  doth  cause  you  moane  ?  ' ' 

The  damselle  scant  wolde  deigne  a  looke, 
Bot  fast  shee  pricked  on. 

"Yet turn  againe,  thou  faire  damselle. 
And  greete  thy  queene  from  mee  : 

When  bale  is  att  hyest,  boote  is  nyest, 
Nowe  helpe  enoughe  may  bee. 

"Bid  her  remember  what  shee  dreamt 

In  her  bcdd,  wheras  shee  lay ; 
How  when  the  grype  and  the  grimlie  beast 

Wolde  have  carryed  her  crowne  awaye. 

"  Even  then  there  came  a  little  gray  hawke. 
And  saved  her  from  his  clawes  ; 

Then  bidd  the  Queene  be  merry  at  hart, 
For  heaven  will  fende  her  cause." 


96 


Sir  Bl&ingar 


Back  then  rode  that  faire  dams^e. 

And  her  hart  it  lept  for  glee ; 
And  when  shee  told  her  gracious  dame 

A  gladd  woman  then  was  shee. 

Bot  when  the  appointed  daye  was  come, 

No  helpe  appeared  nye  ; 
Then  woeful,  woeful  was  her  hart, 

And  the  teares  stood  in  her  eye. 

And  no  we  a  fyer  was  built  of  wood  ; 

And  a  stake  was  made  of  tree  ; 
And  nowe  Queene  Elinore  forth  e  was  led, 

A  sorrowful  sight  to  see. 

Three  times  the  herault  he  waved  his  hand, 

And  three  times  spake  on  hj- e  : 
"  Giffe  any  good  knight  will  fende  this  dame. 

Come  forthe,  or  shee  must  dye." 

No  knight  stood  forthe,  no  knight  there  came, 

No  helpe  appeared  nj^e  : 
And  nowe  the  fyer  was  lighted  up, 

Queene  Elinore  shee  must  dye. 

And  nowe  the  fyer  was  lighted  up, 

As  hot  as  hot  might  be  ; 
When  riding  upon  a  little  white  steed. 

The  tinye  boy  they  see. 

"  Away  with  that  stake  !  away  with  those 
And  loose  our  comelye  queene  :    [brands  ! 

I  am  come  to  fighte  with  Sir  Aldingar, 
And  prove  him  a  traitor  keene  !  " 

Forthe  then  stoode  Sir  Aldingar, 
Bot  when  hee  saw  the  chylde,         [backe, 

Hee  laughed,  and  scoffed,  and  turned  his 
And  weened  hee  had  been  beguylde. 


Sfr  BlDlngar 


97 


"  Nowe  tume,  nowe  turn  thee,  Aldingar, 

And  eyther  fighte  or  flee  : 
I  trust  that  I  shall  avenge  the  wronge, 

Though  I  am  so  small  to  see." 

The  boye  puUd  forthe  a  well  good  sworde 

So  gilt  it  dazzled  the  ee  :— 
The  first  stroke  stricken  at  Aldingar 

Smote  off  his  leggs  by  the  knee. 

"  Stand  up  !  stand  up  !  thou  false  trait6r, 

And  fighte  upon  thy  feete, 
For  and  thou  thrive,  as  thou  beginst, 

Of  height  wee  shall  be  meete  !  " 

"  A  priest  I  a  priest !  "  sayes  Aldingar, 

"  While  I  am  a  man  alive,— ^ 
A  priest,  a  priest,"  sayes  Aldingar, 

"  Me  for  to  houzle  and  shrive  ! 

"  I  wolde  have  layne  by  our  comelye  queene, 

Bot  shee  wolde  never  consent ; 
Then  I  thought  to  betraye  her  unto  our  king. 

In  a  fyer  to  have  her  brent. 

"  There  came  a  lazar  to  the  Kings  gates, 

A  lazar  both  blinde  and  lame  ; 
I  tooke  the  lazar  upon  my  backe, 

And  on  her  bedd  had  him  layne. 

' '  Then  ranne  I  to  our  comelye  king, 

These  tidings  sore  to  tell. 
Bot  ever  alacke  ! ' '  sayes  Aldingar, 

"  Falsing  never  doth  well  :— 

"Forgive  !  forgive  mee,  Queene,  madame, 

The  short  time  I  must  live  ! " 
"  Nowe  Christ  forgive  thee,  Aldingar, 

As  freely  I  forgive  ! ' ' 


98 


Sir  BlDingar 


"  Here  take  thy  queene,  our  King  Harrye, 

And  love  her  as  thy  life, 
For  never  had  a  king  in  Christentye, 
A  truer  and  fairer  wife. ' ' 

King  Henrye  ran  to  clasp  his  queene, 

And  loosed  her  full  sone  ; 
Then  tumd  to  look  for  the  tinye  boye  ; 

— The  boye  was  vanisht  and  gone  ! 

But  first  hee  had  touchd  the  lazar  man, 
And  stroakt  him  with  his  hand  : 

The  lazar  under  the  gallowes  tree 
All  whole  and  sounde  did  stand. 

The  lazar  under  the  gaUowes  tree 
"Was  comelye,  straight  and  tall ; 

King  Henrye  made  him  his  head  stew^de 
To  wayte  within  his  hall. 


*-^ 


Sir  Xancelot  M  Xaftc 


99 


SIR  I  AN'CrLOT  DU  LAKE.* 

When  Arthur  first  in  court  began, 

And  was  approved  king, 
By  force  of  armes  great  victorys  won. 

And  conquest  home  did  bring. 

Then  into  Britain  straight  hee  came. 

Where  fifty  good  and  able 
Knights,  then  repaired  unto  him, 

Which  were  of  the  Round  Table: 


*  See  Appendix. 


loo 


Sic  Xancelot  &u  Xaftc 


And  many  justs  and  tumaments, 

Before  him  there  were  prest, 
AVherein  these  knights  did  then  excell 

And  far  surmount  the  rest ; 

But  one  Sir  I^ncelot  du  I,ake, 

Who  was  approved  well, 
Hee,  in  his  fights  and  deeds  of  armes, 

All  others  did  excell. 

When  hee  had  rested  him  a  while, 

To  play,  and  game,  and  sport ; 
Hee  thought  hee  wold  approve  himselfe 

In  some  adventurous  sort. 

Hee  arm&d  rode  in  forrest  wide, 

And  met  a  damsell  faire, 
Who  told  him  of  adventures  great, 

Wherto  he  gave  good  eare. 

"  Such  wold  I  find,"  quoth  l^ancelot : 
"  For  that  cause  came  I  hither." 

"Thou  seemst,"  quoth  shee,  "  a  knight  full 
And  I  will  bring  thee  thither,  [good, 

"Whereas  a  mighty  knight  doth  dwell, 

That  now  is  of  great  fame  ; 
Therfore  tell  me  what  knight  thou  art, 

And  what  may  bee  thy  name." 

"  My  name  is  I,ancelot  du  Lake." 
Quoth  shee,  "it  likes  me,  then  ; 

Here  dwelles  a  knight  who  never  was 
O'er-matcht  of  any  man  : 

"  Who  hath  in  prison  threescore  knights 
And  four,  that  hee  hath  b«und  ; 

Knights  of  King  Arthurs  court  they  bee. 
And  of  the  Table  Round." 


Sir  ^Lancelot  &u  Xaftc 


Shee  brought  him  to  a  river  then, 

And  also  to  a  tree 
Whereon  a  copper  bason  hung, 

His  fellows  shields  to  see. 

,     Hee  struck  soe  hard,  the  bason  broke  :— 

When  Tarquine  heard  the  sound, 
j     Hee  drove  a  horse  before  him  straight, 
f'        Whereon  a  knight  was  bound. 

'     ' '  Sir  knight,  "then  sayd  Sir  Lancelot, 
"  Bring  me  that  horse-load  hither. 
And  lay  him  downe,  and  let  him  rest ; 
We  '11  try  our  force  together ; 

"  For,  as  I  understand,  thou  hast, 
■f^^       As  far  as  thou  art  able, 
^    Uone  great  despite  and  shame  unto 
The  knights  of  the  Round  Table." 

"  If  thou  art  of  the  Table  Round." 

Quoth  Tarquine  speedily e, 
"Both  thee  and  all  thy  fellowship 

I  utterly  defye." 

"That 's  over  much,"  quoth  Lancelot  tho, 

"  Defend  thee  by  and  by ! " 
They  sett  their  spurs  unto  their  steeds. 

And  each  at  other  flie. 

They  coucht  their  speares  (their  horses  ran. 
As  though  there  had  been  thunder), 

And  each  struck  then  upon  their  shields. 
Wherewith  they  brake  asunder. 

Their  horses  backes  brake  under  them  ; 

The  knights  they  were  astound  : 
To  avoyd  their  horses  they  made  haste 

To  fight  upon  the  ground. 


sir  Xancelot  Cu  lafte 


:f^ 


They  tooke  them  to  their  shields  full  fast, 
Their  swords  they  drew  out  then  ; 

Wj-th  mighty  strokes  most  eagerlye 
One  at  the  other  ran. 

Thej'^  wounded  were,  and  bled  full  sore, 
For  breath  they  both  did  stand  ; 

And  leaning  on  their  swords  awhile, 
Quoth  Tarquine,  "  Hold  thy  hand, 

"  And  tell  to  me  what  I  shall  aske."— 
"  Say  on," — quoth  I,ancelot  tho  : 

"Thou  art,"  quoth   Tarquine,    "the  best 
That  ever  I  did  know  ;  [knight 

"  And  like  a  knight  that  I  did  hate  : 

Soe  that  thou  bee  not  hee, 
I  will  deliver  all  the  rest. 

And  eke  accord  wyth  thee." 

"That  is  well  said,"  quoth  I^ancelot ; 

"  But  sith  it  soe  must  bee. 
What  knight  is  that  thou  hatest  so  ? 

I  pray  thee  show  to  me." 

"  His  name  's  Sir  I,ancelot  du  I^ake, 

Hee  slew  my  brother  deere  ; 
Him  I  suspect  of  all  the  rest : 

I  wold  I  had  him  here." 

"  Thy  wish  thou  hast,  but  now  unknowne  ; 

I  am  Irancelot  du  Lake, 
Now  of  King  Arthurs  Table  Round  ; 

King  Hands  son  of  Benwake  ; 

"  And  I  defye  thee  ;— do  thy  worst." 
"  Ha,  ha  ! "  quoth  Tarquine  tho, 

"  One  of  us  two  shall  end  our  lives 
Before  that  we  do  go. 


Sir  Lancelot  Du  Xafte 


103 


•q*,,.^^,^  -V  .-— ?»-N  V 


"If  thou  bee  lyancelot  du  I,ake, 

Then  welcome  shalt  thou  bee  : 
Wherfore  see  thou  thyself  defend, 

For  now  defye  I  thee." 

They  buckled  then  together  so, 
I,ike  unto  wild  boares  rashing  ; 

And  wyth  theire  swords  and  shields  they  ran 
At  one  another  slashing  : 

The  gfround  besprinkled  was  wyth  blood  : 

Tarquine  began  to  faint ; 
For  hee  had  backt  and  bore  his  shield 

So  low,  hee  did  repent.* 


*  Several  of  the  ancient  ballads  record  similar  fights 
between  giants  and  the  knights  of  King  Arthur's  Round 
Table.  An  "  Ancient  English  Metrical  Romance," 
printed  by  Ritson,  entitled  "Sir  Ywaine  and  Sir  Ga- 
win,"  describes  an  encounter  which  led  to  a  like  result, 
— the  delivering  from  prison  sundry  "  fellowes  "  who, 
by  the  gallantry  of  their  brother-in-arms,  were  "out  of 
bales  broght."    We  copy  a  few  passages  ; 

Syr  Ywaine  rade  into  the  playne. 

And  the  geant  cum  hyin  ogayne :  — 

His  levore  was  ful  grete  and  lang. 

And  himself  ful  mekyl  and  Strang. 

He  said  :  "  What  devil  made  the  so  balde 

For  to  cum  heder  out  of  thi  halde? 

Who-so-ever  the  heder  send 

Lufed  the  litel,  so  God  me  mend  ! 

Of  the  he  wald  be  wroken  fayn." 

"  Do  forth  thi  best !  "  said  Sir  Ywaine. 

***** 
Sir  Ywaine  left  his  sper  of  hand. 
And  strake  obout  him  with  his  brand  ; 
And  the  geant,  mekil  of  main, 
Strake  ful  fast  to  him  ogayn. 

***** 
Sethen  with  a  stroke  to  him  he  stert, 
And  smate  the  geant  unto  the  hert ; 
Ther  was  none  other  tale  to  tell, 
Bot  fast  unto  the  earth  he  fell, 
Als  it  had  bene  a  hevy  tre. 
Then  might  men  in  the  kastel  se 
Ful  mekd  mirth  on  ilka  side, 
The  yates  kest  thai  open  wyde. 

f  #  »  »  » 


I04 


Sir  Xancclot  &u  Xahc 


This  soon  espyde  Sir  Lancelot 

Hee  leapt  upon  him  then, 
Hee  puUd  him  downe  upon  his  knee. 

And,  rushing  off  his  helm, 

Forthwith  hee  strucke  his  necke  in  two  ; 

And,  when  hee  had  soe  done, 
From  prison  threescore  knights  and  four 

Delivered  everje  one. 


fiing  Brtbur's  2)eatb 


105 


KING  ARTHUR  S  DEATH.* 
On  Trinity  MoncHy  in  the  morn, 

Th  s  S(  I  e  1  att  i>  le  ^'.  is  doomed  to  be. 
Where  miny  a  1  night  cr>ed    '   Well-away  I 

A'ack,  It  was  the  more  pitie  ' 
Ere  the  first  crowing  of  the  cock. 

When  IS  the  king  in  his  bed  lay, 
He  thought  Sir  Giwaine  to  him  came, 

And  there  to  hiin  these  wordes  did  say : 


i*  See  Appendix, 


io6 


•ftinQ  Brtbur's  2>eatb 


"  Now,  as  you  are  mine  unkle  dear, 
And  as  you  prize  your  life,  this  day, 

O  meet  not  with  your  foe  in  fight ; 
Put  off  the  battayle,  if  ye  may  ; 

"  For  Sir  I^auncelot  is  now  in  Fraunce, 
And  with  him  many  an  hardy  knight, 

"Wlio  will  within  this  moneth  be  back, 
And  will  assist  ye  in  the  fight." 

The  king  then  called  his  nobles  all, 
Before  the  breaking  of  the  day  : 

And  told  them  how  Sir  Gawaine  came, 
And  there  to  him  these  wordes  did  say. 

His  nobles  all  this  counsayle  gave. 

That  earlye  in  the  morning,  he 
Shold  send  away  an  herauld  at  armes. 

To  ask  a  parley  fair  and  free. 

[chose, 
Then  twelve  good  knightes  King  Arthur 

The  best  of  all  that  with  him  were. 
To  parley  with  the  foe  in  field. 

And  make  with  him  agreement  fair. 

The  king  he  charged  all  his  host. 

In  readiness  there  for  to  be ; 
But  no  man  shold  no  weapon  sturre. 

Unless  a  sword  drawn  they  shold  see. 

And  Mordred  on  the  other  part. 
Twelve  of  his  knights  did  likewise  bring ; 

The  best  of  all  his  company, 
To  hold  the  parley  with  the  king. 

Sir  Mordred  also  charged  his  host, 

In  readiness  there  for  to  be  ; 
But  no  man  shold  no  weapon  sturre. 

But  if  a  sword  drawn  they  shold  see. 


fkinQ  Brtbur'0  Deatb 


107 


For  he  durst  not  his  unkle  trust, 
Nor  he  his  nephew,  sothe  to  tell : 

Alack  !  it  was  a  woefull  case. 
As  ere  in  Christentye  befell ! 

But  when  they  were  together  met. 
And  both  to  fair  accordance  brought, 

And  a  months  league  between  them  set 
Before  the  battayle  shold  be  fought. 

An  adder  crept  forth  of  a  bush,  [knee  ; 

Stung  one  o'  th'  king's  knights  on  the 
Alack  !  it  was  a  woefull  chance, 

As  ever  was  in  Christentye  ! 

When  the  knight  found  him  wounded  sore, 
And  saw  the  wild-worm  hanging  there  ; 

His  sword  he  from  his  scabberd  drew  : 
A  piteous  case,  as  ye  shall  hear. 

For  when  the  two  hostes  saw  the  sword, 
They  joyned  battayle  instanlye  ; 

Till  of  so  many  noble  knights. 
On  cne  side  there  were  left  but  three  ! 

For  all  were  slain  that  durst  abide, 
And  but  some  few  that  fled  away  : 

Ay  me  !  it  was  a  bloody  field 
As  ere  was  fought  on  summers  day  ! 

Upon  King  Arthurs  own  partye, 

Only  himself  escaped  there. 
And  Ivukyn  Duke  of  Gloster  free. 

And  the  kings  butler  Bedevere. 

And  when  the  king  beheld  his  knights, 
All  dead  and  scattered  on  the  mold, 

The  teares  fast  trickled  down  his  face  ; 
That  manly  face  in  fight  so  bold  ! 


io8 


Iking  artbu^s  Deatb 


"  Now  rest  ye  all,  brave  knights,"  he  said, 
"  So  true  and  faithful  to  your  trust : 

And  must  ye  then,  ye  valiant  hearts, 
Be  left  to  moulder  into  dust ! 

"  Most  loyal  have  ye  been  to  me, 
Most  true  and  faithful  unto  death  : 

And,  oh  !  to  raj-se  ye  up  again. 
How  freely  could  I  yield  my  breath  ! 

"  But  see,  the  traitor  's  yet  alive, 
1/3  where  he  stalks  among  the  dead  ! 

Now  bitterlye  he  shall  abye  ; 
And  vengeance  fall  upon  his  head." 

"  O  stay,  my  liege,"  then  sayd  the  duke ; 

"  O  stay  for  love  and  charitie  ; 
Remember  what  the  vision  spake. 

Nor  meet  your  foe,  if  it  may  be." 

''  O  stay  me  not,  thou  worthy  wight, 
This  debt  my  loyal  knights  I  owe  : 

Betide  me  life,  betide  me  death, 
I  will  avenge  them  of  their  foe." 

Then  strait  he  grasped  his  trusty  spear, 
And  on  his  horse  then  mounted  he  : 

As  his  butler  holpe  him  to  his  horse, 
His  bowels  gnshed  to  his  knee. 

"  Alas  !"  then  sayd  the  noble  king, 
"  That  I  should  live  this  sight  to  see  ! 

To  see  this  good  knight  here  be  slain, 
All  for  his  love  in  helping  me  ! " 

He  put  his  spear  into  his  rest. 
And  to  Sir  :Mordred  loud  gan  cry  : 

"  Now  set  thyself  upon  thy  gnard, 
For,  traitor,  now  thy  death  is  nye." 


Iftfng  Brtbur'0  Dcatb 


109 


Sir  Mordred  lifted  up  his  sword, 
And  fierce  to  meet  the  king  ran  he  ; 

The  king  his  spear  he  through  him  thrust 
A  fathom  thorow  his  bodie. 


When  Mordred  felt  the  stroke  of  death, 
And  found  that  he  was  wounded  so, 

He  thrust  himself  upon  the  spear, 
And  struck  the  king  a  deadly  blow. 

Then  grimly  dyed  Sir  Mordred, 

Presently  upon  that  tree  ; 
And  bloody  streams  ran  from  the  king, 

Kre  to  the  duke  returned  he.* 

Sir  I^ukyn  then  he  thus  bespake, 
' '  Sir  knight  thou  hast  been  faithfull  tryde. 

Now  take  my  sword  Excalibar, 
That  hangs  so  freely  by  my  syde  : 

"  O  take  my  sword  Excalibar, 
And  there  into  the  river  throw  ; 

For  here,  henceforth,  benethe  this  tree. 
All  use  of  weapons  I  forego. 

*  Percy  has  printed  also  a  ballad,  entitled  "The 
Legend  of  King  Arthur,"  from  his  "  ancient  folio  manu- 
script," in  which  the  king  relates  his  own  history,  de- 
scribes the  battle  in  which  he  fell,  and  mourns  over  his 
late.  Reference  is  thus  made  to  the  contest  with  Sir 
Mordred : 

And  still  I  him  pursued  with  speed 

Till  at  the  last  wee  mett : 
Whereby  an  appointed  day  of  fight 

Was  there  agreed  and  sett. 

Where  we  did  fight,  of  mortal  life 

Eche  other  to  deprive. 
Till  of  a  hundred  thousand  men 

Scarce  one  was  left  alive. 


There  all  the  noble  chivalrye 
Of  Brittaine  tooke  their  end. 

O  see  how  fickle  is  their  state 
That  doe  on  feates  depend  I 


\^f<A  /Ty* 


110 


tiirxQ  Brtbur^  Dcatb 


"  And  fare  thee  well,  thou  trusty  sword, 
A  better  neer  had  valiant  knight. 

With  thee  full  oft,  and  many  a  day. 
Have  I  withstood  my  foe  in  fight. 

"With  this  good  fauchion  in  my  hand, 
Oft  have  I  reapd  the  bloody  feelde  ; 

Bnt  now  the  fatalle  hour  is  come, 
That  never  more  I  may  thee  weelde." 

The  dtike  to  the  river  side  he  went, 
And  there  his  own  sword  in  threw  he ; 

But  he  kept  back  Excalibar, 
He  kept  it  back  in  privitie. 

For  all  of  coleyne  was  the  blade, 
And  all  the  hilt  of  precious  stone  . 
And  ever  alack  !  "  then  sayd  the  knight, 
"Must  such  a  sword  away  be  thrown?  " 

Then  back  he  came  unto  the  king. 

Who  sayd, ' '  Sir  lyUkj-n,  what  did  ye  see  ?  ' 

"  Nothing,  my  liege,  save  that  the  wind 
Blew  o'er  the  waters  fair  and  free." 

O  go  again,"  then  said  the  king, 
"  O  good  Sir  I,ukj-n,  go  again  ; 
Into  the  river  throw  my  sword. 
Nor  keep  me  lingering  here  in  pain." 

The  duke  then  to  the  river  went, 
And  the  kings  scabberd  in  threw  he  ; 
at  he  kept  back  Excalibar, 
And  hid  it  undemeth  a  tree. 

Then  back  he  came  to  tell  the  king. 
Who  sayd,  ' '  Sir  Lukjm,  saw  ye  ought  ? ' ' — 

''  Nothing,  my  liege,  save  that  the  wind 
Now  with  the  angrj'  waters  fought." 


Iking  Brtbur'0  2)eatb 


"  O  I^ukyn,  lyukyn  !  "  said  the  king, 
"  Twice  hast  thou  dealt  deceitfully  : 

Alack,  whom  may  we  ever  trust. 
When  such  a  knight  so  false  can  be  ? 

"  Say,  wouldst  thou  have  thy  master  dead, 
All  for  a  sword  that  wins  thine  eye  ? 

Now  go  again,  and  throw  it  in, 
Or  here  the  one  of  us  shall  dye." 

The  duke,  all  shent  with  this  rebuke. 
No  aunswer  made  unto  the  king  ; 

But  to  the  river  took  the  sword, 
And  threw  it  far  as  he  could  fling. 

A  hand  and  arm  did  meet  the  sword. 
And  flourished  three  times  in  the  air  ; 

Then  sunk  benethe  the  renning  streme, 
And  of  the  duke  was  seen  no  mair.* 


as  given  by 
"Specimens  of   Early    English    Metrical 


*  In  the  romance  of  "  Morte  D'Arthi 
Mr.   Ellis- 

Romances,'" — this  incident  is  thus  recorded  :  The  knight 
having  at  length  thrown  into  the  water  the  good  sword 
Excalibar,— 


There  came  an  hand,  withouten  rest, 
Out  of  the  water,  and  fair  it  hent, 

And  brandished  as  it  should  brast. 
And  sithe,  as  gleam  away  it  went. 

To  the  king  again  went  he  there. 
And  said,  "  lief,  sir,  I  saw  a  hand  ; 

Out  of  the  water  it  came  all  bare. 
And  thrice  brandished  that  rich  brand." 

"  Help  me  !  soon  were  I  thore  !  " 
He  led  his  lord  unto  the  strand  ; 

A  rich  ship  with  masts  and  oar. 
Full  of  ladies  there  they  fand. 

The  ladies  that  were  fair  and  free. 
Courteously  the  king  gan  they  fong  ; 

And  one  that  brightest  was  of  blee, 
Weeped  sore  and  handes  wrung. 

•'  Brother,"  she  said,  "  woe  is  me, 
From  leeching  hast  thou  been  too  long; 

I  wot  that  greatly  grieveth  me. 
For  thy  paiuis  are  full  strong." 


"Ring  Brtbur's  Deatb 


f"~  *' 


^- 


All  sore  astonied  stood  the  duke ; 

He  stood  as  still  as  still  mote  be  ; 

Then  hastend  back  to  tell  the  king, 

;iii  f      But  he  was  gone  from  under  the  tfee. 

But  to  what  place  he  cold  not  tell, 
For  ne\er  after  he  did  him  spy ; 

Hut  he  saw  a  barge  go  from  the  land, 
And  he  heard  ladyes  howl  and  cr5\ 

Vnd  whether  the  king  were  there,  or  not, 
He  never  knew,  nor  ever  cold ; 

But  from  that  sad  and  direfull  day. 
He  never  more  was  scene  on  mold. 


---11.  -^-S: 


Xlbc  Ibcivc  of  %innc 


113 


THE  HEIRE  OF  LINNE.* 
PART  THE  FIRST. 
Lithe  and  listen,  gentlemen, 

To  sing  a  song  I  will  beginne; 
It  is  of  a  lord  of  faire  Scotland,  [Linne. 

Which   was  the    unthrifty  heire  of 
His  father  was  a  right  good  lord, 

His  mother  a  lady  of  high  degree: 
But  they,  alas  1  were  dead,  him  froe. 

And  he  lovd  keeping  companie. 
To  spend  the  daye  with  merry  cheare. 

To  drinke  and  revell  every  niglit. 
To  card  and  dice  from  eve  to  morne. 

It  was,  I  ween,  his  hearts  delighte. 


•  See  Appendix. 


114 


Zbc  fbeixc  ot  Xinnc 


"^-oi^V 


To  ride,  to  runne,  to  rant,  to  roare, 
To  alwaye  spend  and  never  spare, 

I  wott,  an'  it  were  the  king  himselfe, 
Of  golde  and  fee  he  mote  be  bare. 

Soe  fares  the  unthrifty  Lord  of  Linne 
Till  all  his  golde  is  gone  and  spent ; 

And  he  maun  sell  his  landes  so  broad. 
His  house,  and  landes,  and  all  his  rent. 

His  father  had  a  keen  stewarde. 
And  John  o'  the  Scales  was  called  he  ; 

But  John  is  become  a  gentel-man, 
And  John  has  gott  both  golde  and  fee. 

Sayes,  "Welcome,  welcome,  Lord  of  Linne, 
Let  nought  disturb  thy  merry  cheare  ; 

If  thou  wilt  sell  thy  landes  soe  broad, 
Good  store  of  golde  He  give  thee  heere." 

•   :My  golde  is  gone,  my  money  is  spent ; 

My  lande  nowe  take  it  unto  thee  : 
Give  me  the  golde,  good  John  o'  the  Scales, 

And  thine  for  aj'e  my  lande  shall  be." 

Then  John  he  did  him  to  record  draw, 
And  John  he  cast  him  a  gods-pennie ; 

But  for  every  pounde  that  John  agreed, 
The  lande,  I  wis,  was  well  worth  three. 

Hee  told  him  the  golde  upon  the  borde. 
He  was  right  glad  his  lande  to  winne  : 

"  The  golde  is  thine,  the  lande  is  mine, 
And  nowe  He  be  the  Lord  of  Linne." 

Thus  he  hath  sold  his  lande  soe  broad. 
Both  hill  and  holt,  and  moore  and  fenne, 

All  but  a  poore  and  lonesome  lodge. 
That  stood  far  off  in  a  lonely  glenne. 


XLbc  Ibeire  of  Xinne 


'5 


For  soe  he  to  his  father  hight. 

"My  Sonne,  when  I  am  gonne,"  sayd  he, 
"  Then  thou  wilt  spend  thy  lande  so  broad, 

And  thou  wilt  spend  thy  golde  so  free  ; 

"  But  sweare  me  nowe  upon  the  roode, 
That  lonesome  lodge  thou  'It  never  spend ; 

For  when  all  the  world  doth  frown  on  thee. 
Thou  there  shalt  find  a  faithful  friend." 

The  heire  of  I^inne  is  full  of  golde  ; 

' '  And  come  with  me,  my  friends, ' '  sayd  he, 
"  I,et  's  drinke,  and  rant,  and  merry  make. 

And  he  that  spares,  ne'er  mote  he  thee." 

They  ranted,  drank,  and  merry  made, 
Till  all  his  golde  it  waxed  thinne  : 

And  then  his  friendes  they  slunk  away  ; 
They  left  the  unthrifty  heire  of  I,inne. 

He  had  never  a  penny  left  in  his  purse. 

Never  a  penny  left  but  three, 
And  one  was  brass,  another  was  lead, 

And  another  it  was  white  money. 

"  Nowe,  well-a-day, ' '  sayd  the  heire  of  lyinne, 
"  Nowe  well-a-day,  and  woe  is  me. 

For  when  I  was  the  Lord  of  I,inne, 
I  never  wanted  golde  nor  fee. 

"  But  many  a  trustye  friend  have  I, 
And  why  shold  I  feel  dole  or  care  ? 

lie  borrow  of  them  all  by  tumes, 
Soe  need  I  not  be  never  bare. 

But  one,  I  wis,  was  not  at  home  ; 

Another  had  payd  his  golde  away  ; 
Another  calld  him  thriftless  loone, 

And  bade  him  sharpely  wend  his  way. 


Ii6 


Zbc  fjeirc  ot  Xinne 


"  Nowe  well-a-day, ' '  sayd  the  heire  of  I/inne, 

"  Nowe  well-a-day,  and  w^oe  is  me  ! 
For  when  I  had  my  landes  soe  broad, 

On  me  they  livd  right  merrilee. 
' '  To  beg  my  bread  from  door  to  door 

I  wis,  it  were  a  brenning  shame  ; 
To  rob  and  steal  it  were  a  sinne  ; 

To  worke  my  limbs  I  cannot  frame. 
' '  Nowe  He  away  to  lonesome  lodge. 

For  there  my  father  bade  me  wend  ; 
When  all  the  world  shold  frown  on  me, 

I  there  shold  find  a  trusty  friend." 

PART  THE  SECOND. 

Away  then  hyed  the  heire  of  Linne 

O'er  hill  and  holt,  and  moore  and  fenne, 
Untill  he  came  to  lonesome  lodge 

That  stood  soe  lowe  in  a  lonely  glenne. 
Hee  looked  up,  hee  looked  downe, 

In  hope  some  comfort  for  to  winne ; 
But  bare  and  lothly  were  the  walles  : 

"  It 's  sorrj'chear,"  quo'  the  heire  of  Linne 

' .  e  little  windowe  dim  and  darke 

Was  hung  with  ivj',  brere,  and  yewe  ; 
Xo  shimmering  sunne  heere  ever  shone  ; 

No  halesome  breeze  heere  ever  blew. 
No  chair,  ne  table  he  mote  spye, 

No  chearful  hearth,  ne  welcome  bed ; 
Nought  save  a  rope  with  renning  noose. 

That  dangling  hung  up  o'er  his  head. 
And  over  it,  in  broad  letters. 

These  words  were  written  soe  plain  to  see : 
' '  Ah  !  gracelesse  wretch,  hast  spent  thine  all. 

And  brought  thyself  to  penurie? 


Zbc  Ibclre  ot  Xinne 


117 


"  All  this  my  boding  mind  misgave, 
I  therefore  left  this  trustye  friend  : 

I,et  it  now  sheeld  thy  foule  disgrace, 
And  all  thy  shame  and  sorrowes  end." 

Sorely  shent  wi'  this  rebuke. 
Sorely  shent  was  the  heire  of  lyinne  ; 

His  heart,  I  wis,  was  near  to  brast 
With  guilt  and  sorrowe,  shame  and  sinn  1 

Never  a  word  spake  the  heire  of  lyinne. 
Never  a  word  he  spake  but  three  : 

"  This  is  a  trustye  friend  indeed, 
And  is  right  welcome  unto  me." 

Then  round  his  necke  the  corde  he  drewe, 
And  sprang  aloft  with  his  bodie  ; 

When  lo  !  the  ceiling  burst  in  twaine, 
And  to  the  ground  came  tumbling  he. 

Astonyed  lay  the  heire  of  I^inne, 
Ne  knewe  if  he  were  live  or  dead  : 

At  length  he  looked,  and  sawe  a  bille. 
And  in  it  a  key  of  golde  so  redd. 

Hee  took  the  bille,  and  lookt  it  on, 
Strait  good  comfort  found  he  there  : 

It  told  him  of  a  hole  in  the  wall, 
In  which  there  stood  three  chests  in-fere. 

Two  were  full  of  the  beaten  golde, 
The  third  was  full  of  white  money, 

And  over  them  in  broad  letters 
These  words  were  written  soe  plain  to  see 

"  Once  more,  my  Sonne,  I  sett  thee  clere ; 

Amend  thy  life  and  follies  past ; 
For  but  thou  amend  thee  of  thy  life. 

That  rope  must  be  thy  end  at  last." 


ii8 


Zbc  "fccirc  of  Xinne 


"And  let  it  be,"  sayd  the  heire  of  I,mne, 

"  And  let  it  be,  but  if  I  amend  ; 
For  heere  I  will  make  mine  avow, 
This  reade  shall  guide  me  to  the  end." 

Away  then  went  with  a  merry  cheare, 
Away  then  went  the  heire  of  I,inne  ; 

I  wis  he  neither  ceasd  ne  blanne 
Till  John  o'  the  Scales  house  he  did  winne. 

And  when  he  came  to  John  o'  the  Scales, 
Up  at  the  speere  then  looked  he ; 

There  sate  three  lords  upon  a  rowe 
Were  drinking  of  the  wine  soe  free. 

And  John  himself  sate  at  the  bord-head 
Because  nowe  I^rd  of  I^inne  was  he. 

"I  pray  thee,"  he  said,  "good  John  o'  the 
One  forty  pence  for  to  lend  me. ' '      [Scales, 

Away,  away,  thou  thriftless  loone  ! 
-Vwaj',  away,  this  may  not  be  ; 
>r  Christs  curse  on  mj^  head,"  he  sayd, 
"  If  ever  I  trust  thee  one  pennie  !  " 

lien  bespake  the  heire  of  lyinne. 
To  John  o'  the  Scales  wife  then  spake  he  : 
3Iadame,  some  almes  on  me  bestow^e, 
I  pray  for  sweet  Saint  Charitie." 

•'  Away,  away,  thou  thriftless  loone  ! 

I  swear  thou  gettest  no  aknes  of  me  ; 
For  if  we  shold  hang  any  losel  heere. 

The  first  we  wold  beginne  with  thee." 

Then  bespake  a  good  fellowe 

Which  sat  at  John  o'  the  Scales  his  bord ; 
Sayd,  "  Tume  againe,  thou  heire  of  I^inne; 

Some  time  thou  wast  a  well  good  lord : 


Zbc  fbcixc  of  Xinne 


119 


"  Some  time  a  good  fellowe  thou  hast  been, 
And  sparedst  not  thy  golde  and  fee  ; 

Therefore  lie  lend  thee  forty  pence, 
And  other  forty  if  need  be. 

"  And  ever,  I  pray  thee,  John  o'  the  Scales, 
To  let  him  sit  in  thy  companie  ; 

For  well  I  wott  thou  hadst  his  lande. 
And  a  good  bargaine  it  was  to  thee." 

Up  then  spake  him  John  o'  the  Scales, 
All  wode  he  answerd  him  againe  : 

"  Nowe  Christs  curse  on  my  head, ' '  he  sayd. 
But  I  did  lose  by  that  bargaine  ! 

"  And  heere  I  proffer  thee,  heire  of  I^inne, 
Before  these  lordes  soe  faire  and  free, 

Thou  shalt  have  it  backe  again  better  cheape 
By  a  hundred  markes,  than  I  had  it  of  thee.' 

"  I  drawe  you  to  record,  lords,"  he  sayd. 
With  that  he  cast  him  a  gods-pennie  : 
"  Nowe  by  my  fay  !  "  saydthe  heire  of  I^inne, 
.      "And  heere,  good  John,  is  thy  money." 

And  he  pulled  forth  three  bagges  of  golde. 
And  layd  them  down  upon  the  bord : 

All  woe  begone  was  John  o'  the  Scales, 
Soe  shent  he  cold  say  never  a  word. 

He  told  him  forth  the  good  redd  golde, 
He  told  it  forth  wi'  mickle  dinne. 

"  The  golde  is  thine,  the  lande  is  mine. 
And  now  Ime  againe  the  I,ord  of  I^inne," 

Sayes,  "  Have  thou  heere,  thou  good  fellowe, 
Forty  pence  thou  didst  lend  me  : 

Nowe  I  am  againe  the  Ivord  of  Ivinne, 
And  forty  pounds  I  will  give  thee. 


I20 


Zbc  fbcixc  ot  Xinne 


"He  make  thee  keeper  of  my  forrest, 

Both  of  the  wild  deere  and  the  tame  ; 
For  but  I  reward  thy  bounteous  heart, 
I  wis,  good  fellowe,  I  were  to  blame." 

"Nowe    well-a-day!"    sayth   Joan   o'   the 
Scales ; 

"  Nowe  well-a-day !  and  woe  is  my  life ! 
Yesterday  I  was  I<ady  of  I<inne, 

Nowe  Ime  but  John  o'  the  Scales  his  wife. " 

"Nowe  fare  thee  well,"  sayd  the  heire  of 
lyinne : 
"Farewell nowe,  John  o'  the  Scales,"  sayd 
he: 
"  Christs  curse  light  on  me,  if  ever  again 
I  bring  mj  landes  in  jeopardie  !  " 


lili-% 


Xort)  Soulis 


LORD  SOULIS  ' 

Lord  Soulis  he  sat  in  Hermitijjc  Castle, 

And  beside  him  Old  Redcap  sly  ,— 
"  Now,  tell  me,  thou  sprite,  who  art  ineikle  of  might. 

The  death  that  I  must  die 

While  thou  Shalt  bear  a  ch-irnu  d  life, 
\.nd  hold  that  life  of  nit, 
'lainst  lance  and  arrow,  swonl  iiid  knife, 
I  shall  thy  warrant  he 


*  See  Appendix. 


122 


XorD  Soulis 


"  Nor  forged  steel,  nor  hempen  band, 

Shall  e'er  thy  limbs  confine. 
Till  threefold  ropes  of  sifted  sand 
Around  thy  body  twine. 

"  If  danger  press  fast,  knock  thrice  on  the 
With  rusty  padlocks  bound ;  [chest. 

Turn  away  j-our  eyes,  when  the  lid  shall  rise, 
And  listen  to  the  sound." 

lyord  Soulis  he  sat  in  Hermitage  Castle, 
And  Redcap  was  not  by  ;  [sage, 

And  he  called  on  a  page,  who  was  witty  and 
To  go  to  the  barmkin  high. 

"  And  look  thou  east,  and  look  thou  west, 

And  quickly  come  tell  to  me, 
What  troopers  haste  along  the  waste, 

And  what  may  their  livery  be." 

He  looked  over  fell,  and  he  looked  o'er  flat, 

But  nothing,  I  wist,  lie  saw. 
Save  a  pyot  on  a  turret  that  sat 

Beside  a  corby  craw. 

The  page  he  looked  at  the  skrieh  of  day. 

But  nothing,  I  wist,  he  saw, 
Till  a  horseman  gray,  in  the  royal  array. 

Rode  down  the  Hazel-shaw. 

"Say,  why  do  you  cross  o'er  moor  and 
So  loudly  cried  the  page  ;  [moss? ' ' 

"  I  tidings  bring,  from  Scotland's  King, 
To  Soulis  of  Hermitage. 

"  He  bids  me  tell  that  bloody  warden. 

Oppressor  of  low  and  high. 
If  ever  again  his  lieges  complain. 

The  cruel  Soulis  shall  die." 


%ox^  SouUs 


123 


::',:J|»^ 


By  traitorous  sleight  they  seized  the  knight, 

Before  he  rode  or  ran, 
And  through  the  key-stone  of  the  vault 

They  plunged  him,  both  horse  and  man. 
***** 
O  May  she  came,  and  May  she  gaed, 

By  Goranberry  green ; 
And  May  she  was  the  fairest  maid 

That  ever  yet  was  seen. 

O  May  she  came,  and  May  she  gaed, 

By  Goranberry  tower ; 
And  who  was  it  but  cruel  I^ord  Soulis 

That  carried  her  from  her  bower? 

He  brought  her  to  his  castle  gray. 

By  Hermitage's  side ; 
Says — "  Be  content,  my  lovely  May, 

For  thou  Shalt  be  my  bride." 
With  her  yellow  hair,  that  glittered  fair, 

She  dried  the  trickling  tear  ; 
She  sighed  the  name  of  Branxholm's  heir. 

The  youth  that  loved  her  dear, 

"  Now,  be  content,  my  bonny  May, 

And  take  it  for  your  hame  ; 
Or  ever  and  aye  shall  ye  rue  the  day 

You  heard  Young  Branxholm's  name. 
"  O'er  Branxholm  tower,  ere  the  morning 
hour. 

When  the  lift  is  like  lead  sae  blue,    [night, 
The  smoke  shall  roll  white  on  the  weary 

And  the  flame  shall  shine  dimly  through. " 
Syne  he  's  ca'd  on  him  Ringan  Red, 

A  sturdy  kemp  was  he  ; 
From  friend,  or  foe,  in  Border  feid, 

Who  never  a  foot  would  flee. 


124 


XorD  SouUs 


Red  Ringan  sped,  and  the  spearmen  led 

Up  G  cranberry  slack  ; 
Ay,  many  a  wight,  unmatched  in  fight, 

"Who  never  more  came  back. 

And  bloody  set  the  westering  sun, 

And  bloody  rose  he  up  ; 
But  little  thought  young  Branxholm's  heir 

Where  he  that  night  should  sup. 

He  shot  the  roebuck  on  the  lee, 

The  dun  deer  on  the  law  ; 
The  glamour  sure  was  in  his  ee 

When  Ringan  nigh  did  draw. 

O'er  heathy  edge,  through  rustling  sedge, 

He  sped  till  day  was  set ; 
And  he  thought  it  was  his  merry-men  true. 

When  he  the  spearmen  met. 

Far  from  relief,  they  seized  the  chief; 

His  men  were  far  away  ;  [back 

Through  Hermitage  slack  they  sent  him 

To  Soulis'  castle  gray  ; 
Syne  onward  fure  for  Branxholm  tower 

Where  all  his  merry-men  lay. 

"Now,  welcome,  noble  Branxholm's  heir ! 

Thrice  welcome,"  quoth  Soulis,  "to  me  ! 
Say,  dost  thou  repair  to  my  castle  fair. 

My  wedding  gnest  to  be  ? 
And  lovely  May  deserves,  per  fay, 

A  bride-man  such  as  thee  ! ' ' 


And  broad  and  bloody  rose  the  sun, 
And  on  the  barmkin  shone,  [there. 

When  the  page  was  aware  of  Red  Ringan 
Who  came  riding  all  alone 


Xot^  Qonlie 


125 


To  the  gate  of  the  tower  Lord  Soulis  he 
As  he  lighted  at  the  wall,  [speeds  ; 

Says,  "Where  did  ye  stable  my  stalwart 
And  where  do  they  tarry  all  ?  "       [steeds, 

"  We  stabled  them  sure,  on  the  Tarras  Muir ; 

We  stabled  them  sure,"  quoth  he— 
"Before  we  could  cross  the  quaking  moss 

They  all  were  lost  but  me." 

He  clenched  his  fist,  and  he  knocked  on  the 
And  he  heard  a  stifled  groan  ;  [chest. 

And  at  the  third  knock  each  rusty  lock 
Did  open  one  by  one. 

He  turned  away  his  eyes  as  the  lid  did  rise, 
And  he  listened  silentlie  ;  [low, 

A.nd  he  heard  breathed  slow,  in  murmurs 
"Beware  of  a  coming  tree  ! " 

'^n  muttering  sound  the  rest  was  drowned. 

No  other  word  heard  he  ; 
Jut  slow  as  it  rose,  the  lid  did  close 

With  the  rusty  padlocks  three. 
*  *  *  * 

^  Vow  rose  with  Branxholm's  ae  brothei 
J      The  Teviot,  high  and  low  ; 
Bauld  "Walter  by  name,  of  meikle  fame, 
For  none  could  bend  his  bow. 

O'er  glen  and  glade,  to  Soulis  there  sped 

The  fame  of  his  array. 
And  that  Teviotdale  would  soon  assail 

His  towers  and  castle  gray. 

With  clenchM  fist,  he  knocked  on  the  chest. 

And  again  he  heard  a  groan  ; 
And  he  raised  his  eyes  as  the  lid  did  rise, 

But»answer  heard  he  none. 


126 


%ovt>  Soulis 


The  charm,  was  broke,  when  the  spirit  spoke, 

And  it  murmured  suUenlie,— 
"  Shut  fast  the  door,  and  for  evermore 

Commit  to  me  the  key. 

"Alas  !  that  ever  thou  raisedst  thine  eyes, 

Thine  eyes  to  look  on  me  ! 
Till  seven  years  are  o'er,  return  no  more, 

For  here  thou  must  not  be  ' ' 

Think  not  but  Soulis  was  wae  to  yield 

His  warlock  chamber  o'er  ; 
He  took  the  keys  frcm  the  rusty  lock, 

That  never  were  ta'en  before. 

He  threw  them  o'er  his  left  shoulder, 

With  meikle  care  and  pain  ; 
And  he  bade  it  keep  them  fathoms  deep. 

Till  he  returned  again. 

And  still,  when  seven  years  are  o'er, 

Is  heard  the  jarring  sound  ; 
When  slowly  opes  the  charmed  door 

Of  the  chamber  under  ground. 

And  some  within  the  chamber  door 

Have  cast  a  curious  eye  ; 
But  none  dare  tell,  for  the  spirits  in  hell. 

The  fearful  sights  they  spy. 

***** 

When  Soulis  thought  on  his  merrj^-men  now, 
A  woful  wight  was  he  ;  [pine, 

Says,  "Vengeance  is  mine,  and  I  will  not  re- 
But  Branxholm's  heir  shall  die  ! " 

Says,  "  What  would  you  do,  young  Branxholm, 
Gin  j-e  had  me,  as  1  have  thee  ?  " — 

■ '  I  would  take  you  to  the  good  greenwood 
And  gar  your  ain  hand  wale  the  tree." 


XorD  Soulia 


127 


aMlla!is*», 


"  Now  shall  thine  ain  hand  wale  the  tree, 

For  all  thy  mirth  and  meik!e  pride  ; 
And  May  shall  choose,  if  my  love  she  refuse, 

A  scrog  bush  thee  beside." 
They  carried  him  to  the  good  greenwood 
"Where  the  green  pines  grew  in  a  row  ; 
And  they  heard  the  cry,  from  the  branches 
Of  the  hungry  carrion  crow.  [high, 

They  carried  him  on  from  tree  to  tree. 

The  spiry  boughs  below  ; 
"  Say,  shall  it  be  thine,  on  the  tapering  pine 

To  feed  the  hooded  crow?  " 
"  The  fir-tops  fall  by  Rranxholm  wall 
When  the  night  blast  stirs  the  tree, 
And  it  shall  not  be  mine  to  die  on  the  pine 

I  loved  in  infancie." 
Young  Branxholm  turned  him  and  oft  looked 
And  aye  he  passed  from  tree  to  tree  ;  [back, 
I  Young  Branxholm  peep'd,  and  puirly  spake, 
"  O  sic  a  death  is  no  for  me  !  " 
And  next  they  passed  the  aspin  gray. 

Its  leaves  were  rustling  mournfullie  ;  [gay ! 
"  Now  choose  thee,  choose  thee,  Branxholm 

Say,  wilt  thou  never  choose  the  tree  ? " — 
"More  dear  to  me  is  the  aspin  gray. 

More  dear  than  any  other  tree  ;         [made, 

For,  beneath  the  shade  that  its  branches 

Have  pass'd  the  vows  of  my  love  and  me." 

Young  Branxholm  peep'd,  and  puirly  spake, 

Until  he  did  his  ain  men  see. 
With  witches'  hazel  in  each  steel  cap. 

In  scorn  of  Soulis'  gramarye  ; 
Then  shoulder-height  for  glee  he  lap,— 

"  Methinks  I  spye  a  coming  tree  ! " — 


[28 


XorD  SouUs 


"  Ay,  many  may  come,  but  few  return," 
Quo'  Soulis,  the  lord  of  gramarye  ; 

"  No  warrior's  hand  in  fair  Scotland 
Shall  ever  dint  a  wound  on  me  ! ' ' — 

"  Now,  bj'  my  sooth,"  quo'  bold  Walter, 
"  If  that  be  true  we  soon  shall  see." — 

His  bent  bow  he  drew,  and  his  arrow  was 
But  never  a  wound  or  scar  had  he.     [true, 

^^^^.i  Then  up  bespake  him  true  Thomas, 
■*         He  was  the  lord  of  Ersyltoun  ; 

"  The  wizard  "s  spell  no  steel  can  quell 

Till  once  your  lances  bear  him  down."— 
They  bore  him  down  with  lances  bright. 

But  never  a  wound  or  scar  had  he  ; 
With  hempen  bands  they  bound  him  tight, 
Both  hands  and  feet,  on  the  Nine-stane  lee. 

>'!  That  wizard  accurst,  the  bands  he  burst : 
They  mouldered  at  his  magic  spell ; 
>i  .\nd  neck  and  heel,  in  the  forged  steel, 
Theyboundhim  against  thecharms  of  hell. 

That  wizard  accurst,  the  bands  he  burst : 

No  forged  steel  his  charms  could  bide  ; 
Then  up  bespake  him  true  Thomas, 

"  We  '11  bind  him  yet,  whate'er  betide." 
The  black  spae-book  from  his  breast  hetook, 

Impressed  with  many  a  warlock  spell ; 
.\nd  the  book  it  was  wrote  by  Michael  Scott 

WTio  held  in  awe  the  fiends  of  hell. 

They  buried  it  deep,  where  his  bones  thej- 
sleep. 

That  mortal  man  might  never  it  see  ; 
But  Thomas  did  save  it  from  the  grave 

WTien  he  returned  from  Faerie. 


%Ott>  S0Ulf6 


129 


f"~^ 


The  black  spae-book  from  his  breast  he  took, 
And  turned  the  leaves  with  curious  hand ; 

No  ropes,  did  he  find,  the  wizard  could  bind 
But  threefold  ropes  of  sifted  sand. 

They  sifted  the  sand  from  the  Nine-stane 
burn. 

And  shaped  the  ropes  sae  curiouslie  ; 
But  the  ropes  would  neither  twist  nor  twine 

For  Thomas  true  and  his  gramarye. 

The  black  spae-book  from  his  breast  he  took. 
And  again  he  turn'd  it  with  his  hand ; 

And  he  bade  each  lad  of  Teviot  add    - 
The  barley  chaff"  to  the  sifted  sand. 

The  barley  chaff  to  the  sifted  sand 
They  added  still  by  handfuls  nine  : 

But  Redcap  sly  unseen  was  by. 
And  the  ropes  would  neither  twist  nor 
twine. 

And  still  beside  the  Nine-stane  bum, 
;      Ribbed  like  the  sand  at  mark  of  sea, 
3  The  ropes  that  would  not  twist  nor  turn, 
Shaped  of  the  sifted  sand  you  see. 

The  black  spae-book  true  Thomas  he  took. 
Again  its  magic  leaves  he  spread  ;    [spell. 

And  he  found  that  to  quell  the  powerful 
The  wizard  must  be  boiled  in  lead.* 


*  "  The  tradition  concerning  the  death  of  Lord  SouHs,"  writes  Sir  Walter  Scott,"  is 
not  without  a  parallel  in  the  real  history  of  Scotland."  Melville,  of  Glenbure,  Sheriff 
of  the  Mearns,  was  detested  by  the  barons  of  his  country.  Reiterated  complaints  of 
his  conduct  having  been  made  to  James  I.,  the  monarch  answered,  in  a  moment  of 
unguarded  impatience,  "  Sorrow  gin  the  sheriff  were  sodden,  and  supped  in  broo!  " 
The  words  were  construed  literally.  The  barons  prepared  a  fire  and  a  boiling  caul- 
dron into  which  they  plunged  the  unlucky  sheriff. 


ISO 


XotD  SouU6 


On  a  circle  of  stones  they  placed  the  pot, 
On  a  circle  of  stones  but  barelj'  nine  ; 

They  heated  it  red  and  fiery  hot, 
Till  the  burnished  brass  did  glimmer  and 
shine. 

They  roll'd  him  up  in  a  sheet  of  lead, 
"-^^^^  A  sheet  of  lead  for  a  funeral  pall; 

-'^^^'^f^^^      They  plunged  him  in  the  cauldron  red. 

And  melted  him,  lead,  and  bones,  and  all. 


At  the  Skelf-hill,  the  cauldron  still 
The  men  of  I,iddesdale  can  show  ; 

And  on  the  spot,  where  they  boil'd  the  pot. 
The  spreat  and  the  deer-hair  ne'er  shall 
grow. 


^■^~ii^j^r:itesS5i 


XorD  ^bomas  anD  ifair  Bnnet 


l-?! 


LORD  THOMAS  AND  FAIR  ANNEX.* 

Lord  Thomas  and  fair  Annet 

Sate  a'  daj  on  a  hill ; 
Uhan  night  was  cum,  and  sun  was  sett, 

They  had  not  talkt  their  fill. 

Lord  Thomas  said  i  word  in  jest, 

rair  Annet  toolv  it  ill  : 
"A  '  I  will  ne\ir  wed  a  wife 

Against  m>  am  friends'  will." 


*  See  Appendix. 


132 


Xor&  C:bomas  an&  ^air  Bnnct 


"  Gif  ye  wull  nevir  wed  a  wife, 

A  wife  wull  neir  wed  ye." 
Sae  he  is  hame  to  tell  his  taither, 

And  knelt  upon  his  knee  : 

"  O  rede,  O  rede,  mither."  he  says, 
"  A  g-ude  rede  gie  to  me , 

0  sail  I  tak  the  nut-browne  bride, 
And  let  faire  Annet  be  ? '" 

"  The  nut-browne  bride  has  gowd  and  gear, 

Fair  Annet  she  has  gat  nane  ; 
And  the  little  beauty  fair  Annet  has, 

O  it  wull  soon  be  gane  ! ' ' 

And  he  has  till  his  brother  gane  : 

"  Now,  brother,  rede  ye  me  ; 
A'  sail  I  marrie  the  nut-browne  bride. 

And  let  fair  Annet  be  ?  " 

"  The  nut-browne  bride  has  oxen,  brother. 
The  nut-browne  bride  has  kye  ; 

1  wadhae  ye  marrie  the  nut-browne  bride, 
And  cast  fair  Annet  bye." 

*'  Her  oxen  may  dye  i'  the  house,  Billie. 

And  her  kye  into  the  byre ; 
And  I  sail  hae  nothing  to  my  sell, 

Bot  a  fat  fadge  bye  the  fyre." 

And  he  has  till  his  sister  gane  : 

"Now,  sister,  rede  j-e  me  ; 
O  sail  I  marrie  the  nut-browne  bride, 

And  set  fair  Annet  free  ? ' ' 

"  Ise  rede  ye  tak  fair  Annet,  Thomas. 

And  let  the  browne  bride  alane, 
Lest  j'ou  should  sigh,  and  sa3-,  Alace  ! 

What  is  this  we  brought  hame  ?  " 


XorD  ^bomae  anD  J^afc  Bnnct  133 


"  No,  I  will  take  my  mithers  counsel. 

And  marrie  me  owt  o'  hand ; 
And  I  will  tak  the  nut-browne  bride  : 

Fair  Annet  may  leive  the  land." 

Up  then  rose  fair  Annets  father 

Twa  hours  or  it  wer  day, 
And  he  is  gane  into  the  bower, 

Wherein  fair  Annet  lay. 

"  Rise  up,  rise  up,  fair  Annet,"  he  says, 
"  Put  on  your  silken  sheene  ; 

I,et  us  gae  to  St.  Maries  kirke, 
And  see  that  rich  weddeen." — 

"  My  maides  gae  to  my  dressing-roome, 

And  dress  to  me  my  hair ; 
Whair-eir  ye  laid  a  plait  before. 

See  ye  lay  ten  times  mair. 

"  My  maids,  gae  to  my  dressing-room. 
And  dress  to  me  my  smock  ; 

The  one  half  is  o'  the  hoUand  fine. 
The  other  o'  needle-work." 

The  horse  fair  Annet  rade  upon 

He  amblit  like  the  wind, 
Wi'  siller  he  was  shod  before, 

Wi'  burning  gowd  behind. 

Four  and  twantye  siller  bells 

"Wer  a'  tyed  till  his  mane, 
And  yae  tift  o'  the  norland  wind. 

They  tinkled  ane  by  ane. 

Four  and  twantye  gay  gude  knichts 

Rade  by  fair  Annets  side, 
And  four  and  twantye  fair  ladies, 

As  gin  she  had  bin  a  bride. 


134 


Xor&  ^bomas  anD  jpair  annet 


And  whan  she  cam  to  Maries  kirk, 

She  sat  on  Maries  stean  : 
The  cleading  that  fair  Annet  hap  on 

It  skinkled  in  their  een. 

And  whan  she  cam  into  the  kirk, 

She  shimmerd  like  the  sun  ; 
The  belt  that  was  about  her  waist. 

Was  a'  wi'  pearles  bedone. 

She  sat  her  by  the  nut-browne  bride. 
And  her  een  they  wer  sae  clear, 

I,ord  Thomas  he  clean  forgat  the  bride 
When  fair  Annet  she  drew  near. 

He  had  a  rose  into  his  hand, 

And  he  gave  it  kisses  three, 
And  reaching  by  the  nut-browne  bride, 

Laid  it  on  fair  Annets  knee. 

Up  than  spak  the  nut-browne  bride, 

She  spak  wi'  meikle  spite  : 
"  And  whair  gat  ye  that  rose-water, 

That  does  mak  ye  sae  white  ?  " 

"  O  I  did  get  the  rose-water 

Whair  ye  wull  neir  get  nane. 
For  I  did  get  that  very  rose-water 

Into  my  mithers  wame." 

The  bride  she  drew  a  long  bodkin 

Frae  out  her  gay  head-gear, 
And  strake  fair  Annet  unto  the  heart, 

That  word  she  nevir  spak  mair. 

I^rd  Thomas  he  saw  fair  Annet  wex  pale, 

And  marvelit  what  mote  be  : 
But  whan  he  saw  her  dear  hearts  blude, 

A'  wode-wroth  wexed  he. 


XorD  XTbomas  anO  jfalr  Bnnet 


135 


He  drew  his  dagger  that  was  sae  sharp, 

That  was  sae  sharp  and  meet, 
And  drave  it  into  the  nut-browne  bride, 

That  fell  deid  at  his  feit. 
"  Now  stay  for  me,  dear  Annet,"  he  sed, 

"  Now  stay,  my  dear  !"  he  cryd, — 
Then  strake  the  dagger  untill  his  heart. 

And  fell  deid  by  her  side.* 
lyord  Thomas  was  buried  without  kirk-wa  ; 

Fair  Annet  within  the  quiere  ; 
And  o'  the  tane  thair  grew  a  birk. 

The  other  a  bonne  briere. 

*  In  Jamieson's  ballad  of  "Sweet  Willie  and  Fair 
Annie,"  the  spirit  of  the  lady,  who  dies  of  a  broken 
heart,  is  made  to  visit  the  bridal  bed  of  her  betrayer: 

When  night  was  come,  and  day  was  gone. 

And  a'  men  boun  to  bed. 
Sweet  Willie  and  the  nut-brownc  bride 

In  their  chamber  were  laid, 

They  werena  weel  lyen  down. 

And  scarcely  fa'n  asleep. 
Whan  up  and  stands  she.  Fair  Annie, 

Just  up  at  Willie's  feet. 

"  Weel  brook  ye  o'  your  brown  brown  bride, 

Between  ye  and  the  wa' ; 
And  sae  will  I  o'  my  winding  sheet. 

That  suits  me  best  ava'. 

"  Weel  brook  ye  o'  your  brown  brown  bride. 

Between  ye  and  the  stock  ; 
And  sae  will  I  o'  my  black  black  kist, 

That  has  neither  key  nor  lock. 

"  Weel  brook  ye  o'  your  brown  brown  bride, 

And  o'  your  bridal  bed  ; 
And  sae  will  I  o*  the  cald  cald  mools. 

That  soon  will  hap  my  head." 

Sae  Willie  raise,  put  on  his  claes. 

Drew  till  him  his  hose  and  shoon. 
And  he  is  on  to  Annie's  bower. 

By  the  lei  light  o'  the  moon. 


The  lasten  bower  that  he  came  till, 

O  heavy  was  his  care  ! 
The  waxen  lights  were  burning  bright. 

And  Fair  Annie  streeket  there. 


136 


XorO  ^bomas  anD  jfair  annet 


*S^e  Appendix. 


jfause  3fooC>raac 


OF  THE 

CTNIVERSITY 


faijse;  foodrage.* 

King  Faster  has  courted  her  for  her 
King  Wester  for  her  fee,         [lands, 

King  Honour  for  her  comelye  face, 
And  for  her  fair  bodie. 

They  had  not  been  four  months  mar- 
As  I  have  heard  them  tell,         [ried. 

Until  the  nobles  of  the  land 
Against  them  did  rebel. 

And  they  cast  kevils  them  amang, 
And  kevils  them  between  ; 

And  they  cast  kevils  them  amang, 
Wha  suld  gae  kill  the  king. 


*  See  Append i 


138 


funsc  3fooC»rage 


#^#?V^ 


O  some  said  yea,  and  some  said  nay, 

Their  words  did  not  agree ; 
Till  up  and  got  him,  Pause  Foodrage, 

And  swore  it  suld  be  he. 

When  bells  were  rung,  and  mass  was  sung, 

And  a'  men  bound  to  bed, 
King  Honour  and  his  gay  ladye 

In  a  hie  chamber  were  laid. 

Then  up  and  raise  him,  Pause  Poodrage, 

When  a'  were  fast  asleep, 
And  slew  the  porter  in  his  lodge. 

That  watch  and  ward  did  keep. 

O  four  and  twenty  silver  keys 

Hung  hie  upon  a  pin ; 
And  aye,  as  ae  door  he  did  unlock, 

He  has  fastened  it  him  behind. 

Then  up  and  raise  him.  King  Honour, 
Saj-s— "  What  means  a'  this  din? 

Or  what 's  the  matter.  Pause  Foodrage, 
Or  wha  has  loot  you  in  ?  " — 

"  O  ye  my  errand  weel  sail  learn, 

Before  that  I  depart." — 
Then  drew  a  knife,  baith  lang  and  sharp. 

And  pierced  him  to  the  heart. 

Then  up  and  got  the  queen  hersell. 
And  fell  low  down  on  her  knee  : 

"  O  spare  my  life,  now,  Pause  Poodrage  ! 
For  I  never  injured  thee. 

"  O  spare  my  life,  now.  Pause  Foodrage  ! 

Until  I  lighter  be  ! 
And  see  gin  it  be  lad  or  lass. 

King  Honour  has  left  wi'  me," 


jfauee  jfooDrage 


139 


^^:^2 


"  O  gin  it  be  a  lass,"  he  says, 

"  Weel  nursed  it  sail  be ; 
But  gin  it  be  a  lad  bairn, 

He  sail  be  hangM  hie. 

"  I  winna  spare  for  his  tender  age 

Nor  yet  for  his  hie  hie  kin  ; 
But  soon  as  e'er  he  born  is. 

He  sail  mount  the  gallovrs  pin." — 

O  four-and-twenty  valiant  knights 
Were  set  the  queen  to  guard ; 

And  four  stood  aye  at  her  bouir  door, 
To  keep  both  watch  and  ward. 

But  when  the  time  drew  near  an  end. 

That  she  suld  lighter  be, 
She  cast  about  to  find  a  wile, 

To  set  her  body  free. 

O  she  has  birled  these  merry  young  men 
With  the  ale  but  and  the  wine. 

Until  they  were  a'  deadly  drunk 
As  any  wild-wood  swine. 

"  O  narrow,  narrow,  is  this  window, 
And  big,  big,  am  I  grown  !  " — 

Yet  through  the  might  of  our  I^adye, 
Out  at  it  she  has  gone. 

She  wandered  up,  she  wandered  down, 

She  wandered  out  and  in  ; 
And,  at  last,  into  the  very  swine's  stythe, 

The  queen  brought  forth  a  son. 

Then  they  cast  kevils  them  amang. 
Which  suld  gae  seek  the  queen  ; 

And  the  kevil  fell  upon  Wise  William, 
And  he  sent  his  wife  for  him, 


140 


jfause  jfooDragc 


O  when  she  saw  Wise  William's  wife, 
The  queen  fell  on  her  knee  : 

"  Win  up,  win  up,  madam  ! ' '  she  says  : 
"  What  needs  this  courtesie  ?  "— 


"  O  out  o'  this  I  winna  ris 

Till  a  boon  ye  grant  to  me  ; 
To  change  your  lass  for  this  lad  bairn, 

King  Honour  left  me  wi'. 

And  ye  maun  leam  my  gay  goss-hawk 

Right  weel  to  breast  a  steed  ; 
And  I  sail  leam  your  turtle  dow 

As  weel  to  write  and  read. 

"And  ye  maun  leam  my  gay  goss-hawk 
To  wield  baith  bow  and  brand  ; 

And  I  sail  leam  your  turtle  dow 
To  lay  gowd  wi'  her  hand. 

'  At  kirk  and  market  when  we  meet, 

We  '11  dare  make  nae  avowe. 
But — Dame,  how  does  my  gay  goss-hawk? 

— Madame,  how  does  my  dow  ?  "  * 

•  "This  metaphorical  language,"  says  Scott,  "was 
customary  among-  the  northern  nations.  In  925,  King 
Adelstein  sent  an  embassy  to  Harald  Harfager,  King  of 
Norway,  the  chief  of  which  presented  that  prince  with 
a  sword.  As  it  was  presented  by  the  point,  the  Nor- 
wegian chief,  in  receiving  it,  unwarily  laid  hold  of  the 
hilt.  The  English  ambassador  declared,  in  the  name 
of  his  master,  that  he  accepted  the  act  as  a  deed  ot 
homage.  The  Norwegian  prince,  resolving  to  circum- 
vent his  rival  by  a  similar  artifice,  sent,  next  summer, 
an  embassy  to  .Kdelstein,  the  chief  of  which  presented 
Haco,  the  son  of  Harald,  to  the  English  prince;  and, 
placing  him  on  his  knees,  made  the  following  declara- 
tion:— "  Haraldus,  Nornianorum  Rex,  amice  te  sal- 
utat :  albamque  hanc  avem  bene  institutam  tnittit, 
utque  melius  deinceps  erudias , posttilat ."  The  king 
received  young  Haco  on  his  knees,  which  the  Norwegian 
accepted,  in  the  name  of  his  master,  as  a  declaration  of 
inferiority;  according  to  the  proverb,  "  Is  tninor  sem- 
fer  habetur,  qui  alterius  Jilium  educat." 


3fau6e  3foo&ra^e 


141 


=ii^=^ 


When  days  were  gane,  and  years  came  on, 
Wise  William  he  thought  lang ; 

And  he  has  ta'en  King  Honour's  son 
A-hunting  for  to  gang. 

It  sae  fell  out,  at  this  hunting, 

Upon  a  simmer's  day, 
That  they  came  by  a  fair  castell, 

Stood  on  a  sunny  brae. 

"  O  dinna  ye  see  that  bonny  castell, 

Wi'  halls  and  towers  sae  fair  ? 
Gin  ilka  man  had  back  his  ain, 

Of  it  you  suld  be  heir." — 

' '  How  I  suld  be  heir  of  that  castell, 

In  sooth,  I  canna  see  ; 
For  it  belangs  to  Pause  Foodrage, 

And  he  is  na  kin  to  me."— 

'■  O  gin  ye  suld  kill  him,  Fause  Foodrage, 
You  would  do  but  what  was  right ; 

For,  I  wot,  he  killed  your  father  dear, 
Or  ever  ye  saw  the  light. 

"And  gin  ye  suld  kill  him,  Fause  Foodrage, 
There  is  no  man  durst  you  blame  ; 

For  he  keeps  your  mother  a  prisoner, 
A.nd  she  dauma  take  ye  hame."— 

The  boy  stared  wild  like  a  grey  goss  hawk, 
Says,— "  What  may  a'  this  mean  ?  " 

"  My  boy,  ye  are  King  Honour's  son. 
And  your  mother  's  our  lawful  queen." 

"  O  gin  I  be  King  Honour's  son, 

By  our  I^adye  I  swear, 
This  night  I  will  that  traitor  slay, 

And  relieve  my  mother  dear ! ' ' 


142 


f^nee  jfoodrage 


He  has  set  his  bent  bow  to  his  breast, 

And  leaped  the  castell  wa'  ; 
And  soon  he  has  seized  on  Pause  Foodrage, 

Wha  loud  for  help  'gan  ca'. 

"  Ohaud  your  tongue,  now,  Pause  Poodrage, 

Frae  me  ye  shanna  flee  ;  " — 
Syne  pierced  him  through  the  fause,  fause 
heart, 

And  set  his  mother  free. 

And  he  has  rewarded  Wise  William, 

Wi'  the  best  half  of  his  land  ; 
And  sae  has  he  the  turtle  dow, 

Wi'  the  truth  o'  his  right  hand. 


(Genevieve 


143 


All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights. 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour. 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay, 
Beside  the  ruined  tower. 


*  See  Append! 


144 


(Bencpieve 


The  moonshine,  stealing  o'er  the  scene, 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve  ; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve  ! 

She  leaned  against  the  armed  man, 
The  statue  of  the  armed  knight; 
She  stood  and  listened  to  my  lay, 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own, 
My  hope  !  my  joy !  my  Genevieve  ! 
She  loves  me  best  whene'er  I  sing 

The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  played  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 
An  old  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 
For  well  she  knew  I  could  not  choose, 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand ; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
The  lyady  of  the  I^nd. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined  :  and  ah  ! 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
S—     With  which  I  sang  another's  love. 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes,  and  modest  grace  ; 
And  she  forgave  me,  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face  ! 


(Benevicve 


Us 


But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely  knight. 
And  that  he  crossed  the  mountain-woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night ; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade, 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade, — 

There  came  and  looked  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright ; 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  fiend ; 
This  miserable  knight ! 

And  that,  unknowing  what  he  did. 
He  leaped  amid  a  murderous  band. 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  I^dy  of  the  I,and  ;— 

And  how  she  wept,  and  clasped  his  knees ; 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain — 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain  ;— 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave  ; 
And  how  his  madness  went  away. 
When  on  the  yellow  forest-leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay  ; — 

His  dying  words— but  when  I  reached 
^      That  tenderest  strain  ofall  the  ditty, 
r^.      My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity  ! 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Genevieve  ; 
The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve  ; 


146 


Ocncvicvc 


And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope. 
An  undistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued. 
Subdued  and  cherished  long  ! 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 
She  blushed  with  love,  and  virgin  shame  ; 
And,  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  mj^  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved — she  stepped  aside. 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stept — 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  enclosed  me  with  her  arms, 
She  pressed  me  with  a  meek  embrace  ; 
\nd,  bending  back  her  head,  looked  up, 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'T  was  partly  love,  and  partly  fear, 
\nd  partlj'  't  was  a  bashful  art. 
That  I  might  rather  feel,  than  see, 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calmed  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm, 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride  ; 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  bride. 


3fafr  Margaret  mb  Sweet  limuiiam       147 


FAIR  MARGAR:eT  AND  SWI^EJT  WII,I,IAM.* 

As  it  fell  out  on  a  long  summer's  day, 

Two  lovers  they  sat  on  a  hill ; 
They  sat  together  that  long  summer's  day, 

And  could  not  talk  their  fill. 

"  I  see  no  harm  by  you,  Margaret, 

And  you  see  none  by  me  ; 
Before  to-morrow  at  eight  o'  the  clock 

A  rich  wedding  you  shall  see." 

Fair  Margaret  sat  in  her  bower-window. 

Combing  her  yellow  hair ; 
There  she  spyed  sweet  William  and  his  bride, 

As  they  were  a  riding  near. 


»  See  Appendix. 


148       3fair  /DSargarct  anO  Sweet  IKauiiam 


-'/ 


Ij-yj^ 


Then  down  she  layd  her  ivory  combe, 
And  braided  her  hair  in  twain  : — 

She  went  alive  out  of  her  bower, 
But  ne'er  came  alive  in  't  again. 

When  day  was  gone,  and  night  was  come, 

And  all  men  fast  asleep, 
Then  came  the  spirit  of  fair  Marg'ret, 

And  stood  at  William's  feet. 

' '  Are  you  awake,  sweet  William  ?  "  she  said  ; 

"  Or,  sweet  William,  are  you  asleep  ? 
God  give  j-ou  joy  of  your  gay  bride-bed. 

And  me  of  my  winding,  sheet. ' ' 

When  day  was  come,  and  night  was  gone. 

And  all  men  waked  from  sleep, 
Sweet  William  to  his  ladye  sayd, 

"  My  dear,  I  have  cause  to  weep  ; 

"  I  dreamt  a  dream,  my  dear  ladye, 

Such  dreams  are  never  good  : 
I  dreamt  my  bower  was  full  of  red  wine. 

And  my  bride-bed  full  of  blood."— 

' '  Such  dreams,  such  dreams,  my  honoured  sir, 

They  never  do  prove  good  : 
To  dream  thy  bower  was  full  of  red  wine. 

And  thy  bride-bed  full  of  blood." 

He  called  up  his  merry  men  all. 

By  one,  by  two,  and  bj"  three  ; 
Saying,  "  I  '11  away  to  fair  Marg'ret's  bower. 

By  the  leave  of  my  ladye." 

And  when  he  came  to  fair  Marg'ret's  bower, 

He  knocked  at  the  ring  ; 
And  who  so  ready  as  her  seven  brethren 

To  let  sweet  William  in. 


3fair  Margaret  anO  Sweet  TKIlilUam        149 


Then  he  turned  up  the  covering-sheet, — 

"  Pray  let  me  see  the  dead  : 
Methinks  she  looks  all  pale  and  wan, 

She  hath  lost  her  cherry  red. 
"  I  '11  do  more  for  thee,  Margaret, 

Than  any  of  thy  kin  ; 
For  I  will  kiss  thy  pale  wan  lips. 

Though  a  smile  I  cannot  win." 
With  that  bespake  the  seven  brethren, 

Making  most  piteous  mone ; 
"  You  may  go  kiss  your  jolly  brown  bride, 

And  let  our  sister  alone." 
"If  I  do  kiss  my  jolly  brown  bride, 

I  do  but  what  is  right ; 
I  ne'er  made  a  vow  to  yonder  poor  corpse 

By  day,  nor  yet  by  night.* 

*  The  following  are  the  concluding  stanzas  of  Jamie- 
son's  ballad,  "  Sweet  Willie  and  Fair'Annie  ' : 

Pale  Willie  grew,  wae  was  his  heart, 

And  sair  he  sighed  wi'  teen  : 
"  Oh  Annie  !  had  I  kent  thy  worth. 

Ere  it  o'er  late  had  been  I 

"  It  's  I  will  kiss  your  bonny  cheek. 

And  I  will  kiss  your  chin  ; 
And  I  will  kiss  your  clay  caUl  lip; 

But  I  '11  never  kiss  woman  again. 

"  And  that  I  was  in  love  outdone. 

Sail  ne'er  be  said  o'  me  ; 
For  as  ye  've  died  for  nie,  Annie, 

Sae  will  I  do  for  thee  ! 

"  The  day  ye  deal  at  Annie's  burial, 

The  bread  but  and  the  wine  ; 
Before  the  morn  at  twall  o'clock, 

They  '11  deal  the  same  at  mine." 

The  tane  was  buried  in  Mary's  kirk. 

The  tither  in  Mary's  quire  ; 
And  out  o'  the  tane  there  grew  a  birk, 

And  out  o'  the  tither  a  brier. 

And  ay  they  grew,  and  ay  they  drew, 

Untill  they  twa  did  meet ; 
And  every  one  that  past  them  by. 

Said,  "  Thae  's  twa  lovers  sweet." 


50       jpair  /Rar^arct  anO  Sweet  TIClilUam 


"  Deal  on,  deal  on,  my  merry  men  all, 
Deal  on  your  cake  and  your  wine  ; 

For  -whatever  is  dealt  at  her  funeral  to-day 
Shall  be  dealt  to-morrow  at  mine." 

Fair  Margaret  dyed  to-day,  to-day. 
Sweet  William  dyed  the  morrow  : 

Fair  INIargaret  dyed  for  pure  true  love, 
Sweet  William  dj'ed  for  sorrow. 

Margaret  was  buryed  in  the  lower  chancel. 

And  William  in  the  higher  : 
Out  of  her  brest  there  sprang  a  rose. 

And  out  of  his  a  briar. 


Zbc  JSirtb  of  St.  (3eorge 


151 


^ 

.,...._ 

m 

^^ 

M^~ 

See  Appendix. 


152 


^t)C  J5irtb  of  St.  George 


Distressed  ladies  to  relieve 

He  travelled  many  a  day ; 
In  honour  of  the  christian  faith, 

Which  shall  endure  for  aye. 

In  Coventry  sometime  did  dwell 

A  knight  of  worthy  fame, 
High  steward  of  this  noble  realme, 

Ix>rd  Albert  was  his  name  : 

He  had  to  wife  a  princely  dame, 
Whose  beauty  did  excell, — 

This  virtuous  lady,  being  with  child, 
In  sudden  sadness  fell : 

For  thirty  nights,  no  sooner  sleep 
Had  closed  her  wakeful  eyes, 

But,  lo  !  a  foul  and  fearful  dream 
Her  fancy  would  surprise  : — 

She  dreamt  a  dragon  fierce  and  fell 
Conceived  within  her  womb, 

Whose  mortal  fangs  her  body  rent 
^re  he  to  life  could  come  ! 

All  woe-begone,  and  sad  was  she. 
She  nourisht  constant  woe  ; 

Yet  strove  to  hide  it  from  her  lord, 
I^st  he  should  sorrow  know. 

In  vain  she  strove  ;  her  tender  lord, 
Who  watched  her  slightest  look. 

Discovered  soon  her  secret  pain. 
And  soon  that  pain  partook. 

And  when  to  him  the  fearful  cause 

She  weeping  did  impart, 
With  kindest  speech  he  strove  to  heal 

The  anguish  of  her  heart. 


^be  mxth  ot  St.  George 


153 


"  Be  comforted,  my  lady  dear, 

Those  pearly  drops  refrain  ; 
Betide  me  weal,  betide  me  woe, 

I  '11  try  to  ease  thy  pain. 

"  And  for  this  foul  and  fearful  dream, 

That  causeth  all  thy  woe, 
Trust  me  I  '11  travel  far  away, 

But  I  '11  the  meaning  knowe." 

Then  giving  many  a  fond  embrace, 

And  shedding  many  a  teare. 
To  the  weird  lady  of  the  woods, 

He  purposed  to  repaire. 

To  the  weird  lady  of  the  woods, 

Full  long  and  many  a  day. 
Through  lonely  shades  and  thickets  rough 

He  winds  his  weary  way. 

At  length  he  reached  a  dreary  dell 
\       With  dismal  yews  o'erhung  ; 
■'   Where  cypress  spred  its  mournful  boughs, 
And  pois'nous  nightshade  sprung. 

No  chearful  gleams  here  pierced  the  gloom, 

He  hears  no  chearful  sound  ; 
But  shrill  night-ravens'  yelling  scream. 

And  serpents  hissing  round. 

The  shriek  of  fiends  and  damned  ghosts 

Ran  howling  through  his  ear  : 
A  chilling  horror  froze  his  heart. 

Though  all  unused  to  fear. 

Three  times  he  strives  to  win  his  way, 

And  pierce  those  sickly  dews  : 
Three  times  to  bear  his  trembling  corse 

His  knocking  knees  refuse. 


54 


XLbc  JBirtb  ot  St.  (3coxqc 


At  length  upon  his  beating  breast 

He  signs  the  holy  crosse  ; 
And,  rouzing  up  his  wonted  might, 

He  treads  th'  unhallowed  mosse. 

Beneath  a  pendant  craggy  cliff, 

All  vaulted  like  a  grave, 
And  opening  in  the  solid  rock, 

He  found  the  inchanted  cave. 

An  iron  gate  closed  up  the  mouth. 

All  hideous  and  forlome  ; 
And,  fastened  by  a  silver  chain, 

Near  hung  a  brazed  home. 

Then  offering  up  a  secret  prayer. 
Three  times  he  blowes  amaine  : 

Three  times  a  deepe  and  hollow  sound 
Did  answer  him.  againe. 

"  Sir  Knight,  thy  lady  beares  a  son, 

Who,  like  a  dragon  bright, 
Shall  prove  most  dreadful  to  his  foes. 

And  terrible  in  fight. 

"His  name,  advanced  in  future  times, 

On  banners  shall  be  worn  : 
But,  lo  !  thy  lady's  life  must  passe 

Before  he  can  be  bom." 

All  sore  opprest  with  fear  and  doubt 
I,ong  time  I,ord  Albert  stood  ; 

At  length  he  winds  his  doubtful  way 
Back  through  the  dreary  wood. 

Eager  to  clasp  his  lovely  dame. 

Then  fast  he  travels  back ; 
But  when  he  reached  his  castle  gate, 

His  gate  was  hung  with  black. 


^be  :fiSfrtb  of  St  (Beorge 


155 


In  every  court  and  hall  he  found, 

A  sullen  silence  reigne  ; 
Save  where,  amid  the  lonely  towers, 

He  heard  her  maidens  'plaine  ; 

And  bitterly  lament  and  weep, 

With  many  a  grievous  grone  : 
Then  sore  his  bleeding  heart  misgave, 

His  lady's  life  was  gone. 

With  faultering  step  he  enters  in, 

Yet  half  affraid  to  goe  ; 
With  trembling  voice  asks  why  they  grieve, 

Yet  fears  the  cause  to  knowe. 

"Three  times  the  sun  hath  rose  and  set," 

They  said,  then  stopt  to  weep, 
"  Since  heaven  hath  laid  thy  lady  deare 

In  death's  eternal  sleep. 

"  For,  ah  !  in  travail  sore  she  fell, 

So  sore  that  she  must  dye  ; 
Unless  some  shrewd  and  cunning  leech 

Could  ease  her  presentlye. 

"But  when  a  cunning  leech  was  fet, 

Too  soon  declarM  he. 
She,  or  her  babe  must  lose  its  life  ; 

Both  savM  could  not  be. 

" '  Now  take  my  life,'  thy  lady  said  ; 

'  My  little  infant  save  : 
And  O  !  commend  me  to  my  lord, 

When  I  am  laid  in  grave. 

"  '  O  !  tell  him  how  that  precious  babe 

Cost  him  a  tender  wife  ; 
And  teach  my  son  to  lisp  her  name, 

Who  died  to  save  his  life. ' 


156 


^be  JBirtb  of  St.  George 


"  Then  calling  still  upon  thy  name, 

And  praying  still  for  thee, 
Without  repining  or  complaint, 

Her  gentle  soul  did  flee." 

What  tongue  can  paint  I^ord  Albert's  woe, 

The  bitter  tears  he  shed,— 
The  bitter  pangs  that  wrung  his  heart, 

To  find  his  lady  dead  ! 

He  beat  his  breast,  he  tore  his  hair. 

And,  shedding  many  a  tear, 
At  length  he  askt  to  see  his  son — 

The  son  that  cost  so  dear. 

New  sorrowe  seized  the  damsells  all : 
At  length  they  faultering  say : — 

' '  Alas,  my  lord  !  how  shall  we  tell  ? 
Thy  son  is  stoln  away. 

"  Fair  as  the  sweetest  flower  of  spring. 

Such  was  his  infant  mien  : 
And  on  his  little  body  stampt. 

Three  wonderous  marks  were  seen  : 

' '  A  blood-red  cross  was  on  his  arm  ; 

A  dragon  on  his  breast ; 
A  little  garter  all  of  gold 

Was  round  his  leg  exprest. 

"  Three  carefull  nurses  we  provide, 

Our  little  lord  to  keep  : 
One  gave  him  sucke,  one  gave  him  food, 

And  one  did  lull  to  sleep. 

"  But,  lo  !  all  in  the  dead  of  night. 

We  heard  a  fearful  sound ; 
IX)ud  thunder  clapt ;  the  castle  shook ; 

And  lightning  flasht  around. 


Xtbe  JBfrtb  of  St.  (Beorse 


157 


"  Dead  with  aflfright  at  first  we  lay  ; 

But  rousing  up  anon, 
We  ran  to  see  our  little  lord — 

Our  little  lord  was  gone  ! 

"  But  how  or  where  we  could  not  tell ; 

For,  lying  on  the  ground, 
In  deep  and  magic  slumbers  laid, 

The  nurses  there  we  found." 

"  O  grief  on  grief!  "  I/>rd  Albert  said : 
No  more  his  tongue  cou'd  say, 

When  falling  in  a  deadly  swoone. 
Long  time  he  lifeless  lay. 

At  length  restored  to  life  and  sense. 

He  nourisht  endless  woe  ; 
No  future  joy  his  heart  could  taste. 

No  future  comfort  know. 

So  withers  on  the  mountain  top 

A  fair  and  stately  oake, 
Whose  vigorous  arms  are  torn  away 

By  some  rude  thunder-stroke. 

At  length  his  castle  irksome  grew. 
He  loathes  his  wonted  home  ; 

His  native  country  he  forsakes, 
In  foreign  lands  to  roame. 

There  up  and  downe  he  wandered  far. 

Clad  in  a  palmer's  gown. 
Till  his  brown  locks  grew  white  as  wool, 

His  beard  as  thistle  down. 

At  length,  all  wearied,  down  in  death 

He  laid  his  reverend  head. — 
Meantime  amid  the  lonely  wilds 

His  little  son  was  bred. 


158 


Ubc  JBirtb  of  St.  George 


There  the  weird  lady  of  the  woods 
Had  borne  him  far  awaj- ; 
1^,5^   And  trained  him  up  in  feates  of  amies, 
And  every  martial  play. 


XLbc  ^crmalO 


159 


f'^'^M^^'-: 


THE  MERMAID.* 

On  Jura  s  heath  how  sweetly  swell 
The  murmurs  of  the  mountain  bee ! 

How  softly  mourns  the  writhed  shell, 
Of  Jura's  shore,  its  parent  sea  ! 

But  softer,  floating  o'er  the  deep, 
The  mermaid's  sweet  sea-soothing  lay. 

That  charmed  the  dancing  waves  to  sleep. 
Before  the  bark  of  Colonsay. 


*  See  Appendix. 


i6o 


TIbe  /IBermaiD 


Aloft  the  purple  pennons  wave, 
As  parting  gay  from  Crinan's  shore, 

From  Morven's  wars  the  seamen  brave 
Their  gallant  chieftain  homeward  bore. 

In  youth's  gay  bloom,  the  brave  Macphail 
Still  blamed  the  lingering  bark's  delay ; 

For  her  he  chid  the  flagging  sail, 
The  lovely  Maid  of  Colonsay. 

And  "raise,"  he  cried,  "the  song  of  love. 
The  maiden  sung  with  tearful  smile, 

When  first,  o'er  Jura's  hills  to  rove. 
We  left  afar  the  lonely  isle  !— 

"  When  on  this  ring  of  ruby  red 
Shall  die,"  she  said,  "  the  crimson  hue, 

Know  that  thy  favourite  fair  is  dead, 
Or  proves  to  thee  and  love  untrue." 

Now,  lightly  poised,  the  rising  oar 
Disperses  wide  the  foamy  spray. 

And,  echoing  far  o'er  Crinan's  shore, 
Resounds  the  song  of  Colonsay. 

"  Softly  blow,  thou  western  breeze. 
Softly  rustle  through  the  sail : 
"n;^  Soothe  to  rest  the  furrowy  seas. 

Before  my  love,  sweet  western  gale  ! 

"  Where  the  wave  is  tinged  with  red, 
And  the  russet  sea-leaves  grow, 

Mariners,  with  prudent  dread, 
Shun  the  shelving  reefs  below. 

"  As  you  pass  through  Jura's  sound. 
Bend  your  course  by  Scarba's  shore. 

Shun,  O  shun,  the  gulf  profound. 
Where  Corrivrekin's  surges  roar  ! 


^be  /Hbcrmai^ 


i6i 


"  If,  from  that  unbottotned  deep, 
With  wrinkled  form  and  wreathed  train, 

O'er  the  verge  of  Scarba's  steep. 
The  sea-snake  heave  his  snowy  mane, 

"  Unwarp,  unwind  his  oozy  coils, 
Sea-g^reen  sisters  of  the  main, 

And,  in  the  gulf  where  ocean  boils, 
The  unwieldy,  wallowing  monster  chain. 

^  J\  "  Softly  blow,  thou  western  breeze, 
Softly  rustle  through  the  sail ! 
Soothe  to  rest  the  furrowed  seas, 
Before  my  love,  sweet  witstern  gale  !  " 

r.    Thus  all  to  soothe  the  chieftain's  woe, 
Far  from  the  maid  he  loved  so  dear. 
The  song  arose  so  soft  and  slow, 
^     He  seemed  her  parting  sigh  to  hear, 

^  The  lonely  deck  he  paces  o'er, 
Impatient  for  the  rising  day. 
And  still  from  Crinan's  moonlight  shore. 
He  turns  his  eyes  to  Colonsay. 

The  moonbeams  crisp  the  curling  surge. 
That  streaks  with  foam  the  ocean  green : 

While  forward  still  the  rowers  urge 
Their  course,  a  female  form  was  seen. 

That  sea-maid's  form,  of  pearly  light, 
Was  whiter  than  the  downy  spray, 

And  round  her  bosom,  heaving  bright. 
Her  glossy  yellow  ringlets  play. 

Borne  on  a  foamy-crested  wave. 
She  reached  amain  the  bounding  prow. 

Then  clasping  fast  the  chieftain  brave. 
She.  plunging,  sought  the  deep  below. 


l62 


Cbe  flbermaiD 


Ah  !  long  beside  thy  feigti^  bier, 
The  monks  the  prayers  of  death  shall  say, 

And  long,  for  thee,  the  fruitless  tear, 
Shall  weep  the  Maid  of  Colonsay ! 

But  downwards,  like  a  powerless  corse, 
The  eddying  waves  the  chieftain  bear ; 

He  only  heard  the  moaning  hoarse 
Of  waters,  murmuring  in  his  ear. 

The  murmurs  sink  by  slow  degrees ; 

No  more  the  surges  round  him  rave ; 
IvUUed  by  the  music  of  the  seas, 

He  lies  within  a  coral  cave. 

In  dreamy  mood  reclines  he  long. 
Nor  dares  his  trancM  eyes  unclose  ; 

Till,  warbling  wild,  the  sea-maid's  song, 
Far  in  the  crystal  cavern  rose  : 

Soft  as  that  harp's  unseen  control. 
In  morning  dreams  which  lovers  hear. 

Whose  strains  steal  sweetly  o'er  the  soul, 
But  never  reach  the  waking  ear. 

As  sunbeams  through  the  tepid  air, 
When  clouds  dissolve  the  dews  unseen. 

Smile  on  the  flowers  that  bloom  more  fair. 
And  fields  that  glow  with  livelier  green  ; 

So  melting  soft  the  music  fell ; 

It  seemed  to  soothe  the  fluttering  spray— 
"Say,  heardst  thou   not  these  wild  notes 

Ah  !  't  is  the  song  of  Colonsay. ' '      [swell  ? 

Irike  one  that  from  a  fearful  dream 
Awakes,  the  morning  light  to  view. 

And  joys  to  see  the  purple  beam, 
Yet  fears  to  find  the  vision  true,— 


^be  /IBermaiD 


163 


He  heard  that  strain,  so  wildly  sweet, 
"Which  bade  his  torpid  languor  fly ; 

He  feared  some  spell  had  bound  his  feet, 
And  hardly  dared  his  limbs  to  try. 

"This  yellow  sand,  this  sparry  cave, 
Shall  bend  thy  soul  to  beauty's  sway  ; 

Canst  thou  the  maiden  of  the  wave 
Compare  to  her  of  Colonsay  ?  " 

Roused  by  that  voice  of  silver  sound. 
From  the  paved  floor  he  lightly  sprung. 

And  glancing  wild  his  eyes  around, 
Where  the  fair  nymph  her  tresses  wrung, 

No  form  he  saw  of  mortal  mould  ; 

It  shone  like  ocean's  snowy  foam  ; 
Her  ringlets  waved  in  living  gold, 

Her  mirror  crystal,  pearl  her  comb. 

Her  pearly  comb  the  siren  took. 
And  careless  bound  her  tresses  wild  ; 

Still  o'er  the  mirror  stole  her  look, 
As  on  the  wondering  youth  she  smiled. 

lyike  music  from  the  greenwood  tree. 
Again  she  raised  the  melting  lay  :— 
^  "  Fair  warrior,  wilt  thou  dwell  with  me, 
^^^1      And  leave  the  Maid  of  Colonsay? 

"  Fair  is  the  crystal  hall  for  me. 
With  rubies  and  with  emeralds  set ; 

And  sweet  the  music  of  the  sea 
Shall  sing,  when  we  for  love  are  met. 

"  How  sweet  to  dance  with  gliding  feet. 
Along  the  level  tide  so  green ; 

Responsive  to  the  cadence  sweet. 
That  breathes  along  the  moonlight  scene  ! 


1 64 


^be  ^crmaiD 


"  And  soft  the  music  of  the  main 
Rings  from  the  motley  tortoise-shell ; 

While  moonbeams,  o'er  the  watery  plain, 
Seem  trembling  in  its  fitful  swell. 

"  How  sweet,  when  billows  heave  their  head, 
And  shake  their  snowy  crests  on  high, 

Serene  in  Ocean's  sapphire-bed, 
Beneath  the  tumbling  surge  to  lie  ; 

"To  trace,  with  tranquil  step,  the  deep. 
Where  pearly  drops  of  frozen  dew. 

In  concave  shells,  unconscious,  sleep, 
Or  shine  with  lustre,  silvery  blue  ! 

.  ;     "Then  shall  the  summer  sun,  from  far, 
„ .  V      Pour  through  the  wave  a  softer  ray ; 
__     While  diamonds,  in  a  bower  of  spar, 
At  eve  shall  shed  a  brighter  day. 

"  Nor  stormy  wind,  nor  wintry  gale, 
That  o'er  the  angry  ocean  sweep, 

Shall  e'er  our  coral  groves  assail, 
Calm  in  the  bosom  of  the  deep. 

"  Through  the  green  meads  beneath  the  sea, 
Enamoured,  we  shall  fondly  stray ; 

Then,  gentle  warrior,  dwell  with  me. 
And  leave  the  Maid  of  Colonsay  ! " 

"Though   bright   thy  locks  of  glistering 
Z7air  maiden  of  the  foamy  main  !       [gold. 

Thy  life-blood  is  the  water  cold. 
While  mine  beats  high  in  every  vein. 

"  If  I  beneath  thy  sparry  cave. 
Should  in  thy  snovry  arms  recline. 

Inconstant  as  the  restless  wave. 
My  heart  would  grow  as  cold  as  thine." 


^be  /iRcrmal^ 


165 


% 


-V 


As  cygnet  down,  proud  swelled  her  breast, 
Her  eye  confessed  the  pearly  tear ; 

His  hand  she  to  her  bosom  pressed— 
"  Is  there  no  heart  for  rapture  here  ? 

''  These  limbs,  sprung  from  the  lucid  sea. 
Does  no  warm  blood  their  currents  fill ; 

No  heart-pulse  riot,  wild  and  free. 
To  joy,  to  love's  delirious  thrill  ?  " 

"Though  all  the  splendour  of  the  sea 
Around  thy  faultless  beauty  shine. 

That  heart  that  riots  wild  and  free. 
Can  hold  no  sympathy  with  mine. 

"  These  sparkling  eyes,  so  wild  and  gay, 
They  swim  not  in  the  light  of  love  : 

The  beauteous  Maid  of  Colonsay , 
Her  eyes  are  milder  than  the  dove  !    . 

"  Even  now,  within  the  lonely  isle. 
Her  eyes  are  dim  with  tears  for  me  ; 

And  canst  thou  think  that  siren  smile 
Can  lure  my  soul  to  dwell  with  thee?  " 

An  oozy  film  her  limbs  o'erspread  ; 

Unfolds  in  length  her  scaly  train  : 
She  tossed,  in  proud  disdain,  her  head, 

And  lashed,  with  webbed  fin,  the  main. 

"Dwell  here  alone  !  "  the  mermaid  cried, 
"  And  view  far  off  the  sea-nymphs  play  ; 

Thy  prison  wall,  the  azure  tide, 
Shall  bar  thy  steps  from  Colonsay. 

"  Whene'er,  like  Ocean's  scaly  brood, 
I  cleave  with  rapid  fin,  the  wave. 

Far  from  the  daughter  of  the  flood. 
Conceal  thee  in  this  coral  cave. 


[66 


Zbe  flbermaiO 


"  I  feel  my  former  soul  return  ; 

It  kindles  at  thy  cold  disdain  : 
And  has  a  mortal  dared  to  spurn 

A  daughter  of  the  foamy  main  ?  " 

She  fled ;  around  the  crystal  cave 
The  rolling  waves  resume  their  road  ; 

On  the  broad  portal  idly  rave, 
But  enter  not  the  nymph's  abode. 

And  many  a  weary  night  went  by, 

As  in  the  lonely  cave  he  lay  ; 
And  taany  a  sun  rolled  through  the  sky. 

And  poured  its  beams  on  Colonsay. 

And  oft,  beneath  the  silver  moon, 
He  heard  afar  the  mermaid  sing, 

And  oft,  to  many  a  melting  tune. 
The  shell-formed  lyres  of  ocean  ring. 

And  when  the  moon  went  down  the  sky, 
Still  rose,  in  dreams,  his  native  plain. 

And  oft  he  thought  his  love  was  by. 
And  charmed  him  with  some  tender  strain. 

And  heart-sick  oft  he  waked  to  weep. 
When  ceased  that  voice  of  silver  sound  ; 

And  thought  to  plunge  him  in  the  deep, 
That  walled  his  crystal  cavern  round. 

But  still  the  ring  of  ruby  red. 
Retained  its  vivid  crimson  hue ; 

And  each  despairing  accent  fled. 
To  find  his  gentle  love  so  true. 

When  seven  long  lonely  months  were  gone, 
The  mermaid  to  his  cavern  came  ; 

No  more  mis-shapen  from  the  zone, 
But  like  a  maid  of  mortal  frame. 


XLbc  /IRermafD 


167 


"  O  give  to  me  that  ruby  ring, 
That  on  thy  finger  glances  gay, 

And  thou  shalt  hear  the  mermaid  sing 
The  song  thou  lov'st  of  Colonsay." 

"  This  ruby  ring,  of  crimson  grain. 
Shall  on  thy  finger  glitter  gay, 

If  thou  wilt  bear  me  through  the  main, 
Again  to  visit  Colonsay." 

"  Except  thou  quit  thy  former  love. 
Content  to  dwell  for  aye  with  me. 

Thy  scorn  my  finny  frame  might  move, 
To  tear  thy  limbs  amid  the  sea." 

"  Then  bear  me  swift  along  the  main, 

The  lonely  isle  again  to  see  ; 
And  when  I  here  return  again, 

I  plight  my  faith  to  dwell  with  thee." 

An  oozy  film  her  limbs  o'erspread, 
While  slow  unfolds  her  scaly  train, 

With  gluey  fangs  her  hands  were  clad, 
She  lashed,  with  webbed  fin,  the  main. 

He  grasps  the  mermaid's  scaly  sides, 
As,  with  broad  fin,  she  oars  her  way ; 

Beneath  the  silent  moon  she  glides. 
That  sweetly  sleeps  on  Colonsay. 

Proud  swells  her  heart !  she  deems,  at  last, 
To  lure  him  with  her  silver  tongue. 

And,  as  the  shelving  rocks  she  passed. 
She  raised  her  voice,  and  sweetly  sung. 

In  softer  sweeter  strains  she  sung. 
Slow  gliding  o'er  the  moonlight  bay. 

When  light  to  land  the  chieftain  sprung, 
To  hail  the  Maid  of  Colonsay. 


I68 


Zbc  /R>ermai& 


O  sad  the  mermaid's  gay  notes  fell, 
And  sadly  sink  remote  at  sea  ! 

So  sadly  mourns  the  writhed  shell 
Of  Jura's  shore,  its  parent  sea. 

And  ever,  as  the  year  returns. 

The  charm-bound  sailors  know  the  day ; 
For  sadly  still  the  mermaid  mourns 

The  lovely  Chief  of  Colonsay. 


%ovtf  Wlin'0  DauQbter 


169 


LORD  ULLIN'S  DAUGHTER.* 

A  chieftain,  to  the  Highlands  bound, 
Cries,  "  Boatman,  do  not  tarry  1 

And  I  '11  give  thee  a  silver  pound 
To  row  us  o'er  the  ferry." — 

"  Now,  who  be  ye  would  cross  Lochgyle, 
This  dark  and  stormy  water?  " 

"  O,  I  'm  the  chief  of  Ulva's  Isle, 
And  this  Lord  Ullin's  daughter. 


*  See  Appendijj. 


I70 


Xor&  'ClUin's  5)augbtcr 


"  And  fast  before  her  father's  men, 
Three  days  we  've  fled  together  ; 

For  should  he  find  us  in  the  glen, 
My  blood  would  stain  the  heather. 

"  His  horsemen  hard  behind  us  ride ; 

Should  they  our  steps  discover, 
Then  who  will  cheer  my  bonny  bride, 

When  they  have  slain  her  lover?  " 

Out  spoke  the  hardy  Highland  wight, 
"I  '11  go,  my  chief^I  'm  ready  : — 

It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright. 
But  for  your  winsome  lady  : 

"And,  by  mj'  word  !  the  bonny  bird 

In  danger  shall  not  tarrj' ; 
So,  though  the  waves  are  raging  white, 

I  '11  row  5'ou  o'er  the  ferry." 

By  this  the  storm  grew  loud  apace. 
The  water-wraith  was  shrieking ; 

And  in  the  scowl  of  heaven  each  face 
Grew  dark  as  they  were  speaking. 

But  still  as  wilder  blew  the  wind. 
And  as  the  night  grew  drearer, 

Adown  the  glen  rode  armed  men  ; 
Their  trampling  sounded  nearer. 

"  O  haste  thee,  haste  !  "  the  lady  cries, 
"  Though  tempests  round  us  gather ; 

I  '11  meet  the  raging  of  the  skies. 
But  not  an  angry  father." 

The  boat  has  left  a  stormy  land, 

A  stormy  sea  before  her,— 
When,  Oh  !  too  strong  for  human  hand 

The  tempest  gather'd  o'er  her. 


XorD  'Ginin'6  2)augbtcr  171 

And  still  they  row'd  amidst  the  roar 

Of  waters  fast  prevailing  : 
l,OTd  Ullin  reached  that  fatal  shore, 

His  wrath  was  changed  to  wailing. 

For  sore  dismay'd,  through  storm   and 
His  child  he  did  discover  ;  [shade, 

One  lovely  hand  she  stretch 'd  for  aid, 
And  one  was  round  her  lover. 

"Come  back  !  come  back  !  "  he  cried  in 
"  Across  this  stormy  water  ;  [grief, 

And  I  '11  forgive  your  Highland  chief. 
My  daughter  !  Oh  !  my  daughter  !  "— * 

»  In  a  ballad,  entitled  "  Duncan,"  printed  hy  Herd, 
are  some  vigorous  and  beautiful  stanzas,  which  de- 
■|         scribe  the  meeting  of  tlie  lover  and  the  uncle  of  a  lady 
who  has  been  taken  from  her  "  old  home  "  : 

"  The  rose  I  pluckt  o"  right  is  mine. 

Our  hearts  togetlier  grew 
Like  twa  sweet  roses  on  ae  stalk  ; 

Frae  hate  to  love  they  flew." 

He  stampt  his  foot  upo'  the  ground. 

And  thus  in  wrath  did  say, 
"God  strike  my  saul,  if  frae  this  field, 

We  baith  in  life  shall  gae." 

He  wav'd  his  hand,  the  pipers  play'd. 

The  targets  clatter'd  round  ; 
And  now  between  the  meeting  faes 

Was  little  space  of  ground. 

But  wha  is  she  that  runs  sae  fast? 

Her  feet  nae  stap  they  find  ; 
Sae  swiftly  rides  the  milky  cloud, 

Upo'  the  summer's  wind. 

Her  face  a  mantle  screen'd  afore. 

She  show'd  of  lily  hue  ; 
Sae  frae  the  grey  mist  breaks  the  sun. 

To  drink  the  morning  dew. 

"Alack!  my  friends;  what  sight  is  this? 

O  stap  your  rage,"  she  cry'd  ; 
"  Whar  love  with  honey'd  lips  should  be, 

Mak  not  a  breach  sae  wide." 


172 


XorD  'dllin'B  Daugbter 


Sir  BQiltborn 


173 


;^  Oh  '  gentle  huntsman,  softly  tread, 
And  softly  wind  thy  bugle-horn  ; 
Nor  rudely  break  the  silence  shed 
Around  the  grave  of  Agilthom ! 

Oh  !  gentle  huntsman,  if  a  tear 
E'er  dimmed  for  others'  woe  thine  eyes, 

Thou  'It  surely  dew,  with  drops  sincere, 
The  sod  where  I^ady  Eva  lies. 


•  Sec  Appendix. 


t74 


Sir  aglltborn 


Yon  crumbling  chapel's  sainted  bound 
Their  hands  and  hearts  beheld  them  plight ; 

IvOng  held  yon  towers,  with  ivy  crowned, 
The  beauteous  dame  and  gallant  knight. 

Alas  !  the  hour  of  bliss  is  past. 
For  hark  !  the  din  of  discord  rings  ; 

War's  clarion  sounds,  Joy  hears  the  blast, 
And  trembling  plies  his  radiant  wings. 

And  must  sad  Eva  lose  her  lord  ? 

And  must  he  seek  the  martial  plain  ? 
Oh  !  see  she  brings  his  casque  and  sword  ! 

Oh  !  hark,  she  pours  her  plaintive  strain  ! 

"  Blessed  is  the  village  damsel's  fate. 
Though  poor  and  low  her  station  be  ; 

Safe  from  the  cares  which  haunt  the  great, 
Safe  from  the  cares  which  torture  me  ! 

"  No  doubting  fear,  no  cruel  pain, 
No  dread  suspense  her  breast  alarms ; 

No  tyrant  honour  rules  her  swain. 
And  tears  him  from  her  folding  arms. 

"  She,  careless  wandering  'midst  the  rocks, 
In  pleasing  toil  consumes  the  day  ; 

And  tends  her  goats,  or  feeds  her  flocks. 
Or  joins  her  rustic  lover's  lay. 

"  Though  hard  her  couch,  each  sorrow  flies 
The  pillow  which  supports  her  head  ; 

She  sleeps,  nor  fears  at  mom  her  eyes 
Shall  wake,  to  mourn  a  husband  dead. 

'*  Hush,  impious  fears  !  the  good  and  brave, 
Heaven's  arm  will  guard  from  danger  free  ; 

When  death  with  thousands  gluts  the  grave, 
His  dart,  my  love,  shall  glance  from  thee ; 


Sfr  Bgiltborn 


175 


"  While  thine  shall  fly  direct  and  sure, 
This  buckler  every  blow  repel ; 

This  casque  from  wounds  that  face  secure, 
Where  all  the  loves  and  graces  dwell. 

"  This  glittering  scarf,  with  tenderest  care, 
My  hands  in  happier  moments  wove  ; 

Cursedbe  the  wretch,  whose  sword  shall  tear 
The  spell-bound  work  of  wedded  love  ! 

"  1,0  !  on  thy  falchion  keen  and  bright, 
[  shed  a  trembling  consort's  tears  ; 

Oh  !  when  their  traces  meet  thy  sight, 
Remember  wretched  Eva's  fears  ! 

Think  how  thy  lips  she  fondly  pressed, 
Think  how  she  wept— compelled  to  part ; 
Think,  every  wound  which  scars  thy  breast. 
Is  doubly  marked  on  Eva's  heart ! " — 

O  thou  !  my  mistress,  wife,  and  friend ! " — 
Thus  Agilthorn  with  sighs  began  ; 
'  Thy  fond  complaints  my  bosom  rend, 
Thy  tears  my  fainting  soul  unman  : 

"  In  pity  cease,  my  gentle  dame, 
Such  sweetness  and  such  grief  to  join  ! 

Lest  I  forget  the  voice  of  Fame, 
And  only  list  to  Love's  and  thine. 


"  Flow,  flow,  my  tears,  unbounded  gush  ! 
^^      Rise,  rise,  my  sobs,  I  set  ye  free  : 

Bleed,  bleed,  my  heart !  I  need  not  blush 
To  own  that  life  is  dear  to  me. 

"  The  wretch  whose  lips  have  pressed  the 
The  bitter  bowl  of  pain  and  woe,       [bowl. 

May  careless  reach  his  mortal  goal. 
May  boldly  meet  the  final  blow  : 


176 


Sir  Bailtborn 


"  His  hopes  destroyed,  his  comfort  wrecked, 
A  happier  life  he  hopes  to  find  ; 

But  what  can  I  in  heaven  expect. 
Beyond  the  bliss  I  leave  behind  ? 

"  Oh,  no  !  the  joys  of  yonder  skies. 
To  prosperous  love  present  no  charms  ; 

My  heaven  is  placed  in  Eva's  eyes, 
My  paradise  in  Eva's  arms. 

"  Yet  mark  me,  sweet !  if  Heaven's  command 
Hath  doomed  mj*  fall  in  martial  strife, 
^      Oh  !  let  not  anguish  tempt  thy  hand 
To  rashly  break  the  thread  of  life  ! 

"  No  !  let  our  boy  thy  care  engross, 
I^t  him  thy  stay,  thy  comfort  be  ; 

Supply  his  luckless  father's  loss, 
And  love  him  for  thyself  and  me. 

' '  So  may  oblivion  soon  efface 
The  grief  which  clouds  this  fatal  mom ; 

And  soon  thy  cheeks  afford  no  trace 
Of  tears  which  fall  for  Agilthorn  !  " 

He  said  ;  and  couched  his  quivering  lance  : 
He  said ;  and  braced  his  moony  shield  : — 

Sealed  a  last  kiss,  threw  a  last  glance, 
Then  spurred  his  steed  to  Flodden  Field. 

But  Eva,  of  all  joy  bereft. 
Stood  rooted  at  the  castle  gate, 

And  viewed  the  prints  his  courser  left. 
While  hurr>-ing  at  the  call  of  fate. 

Forebodings  sad  her  bosom  told, 
The  steed  which  bore  him  thence  so  light, 

Her  longing  ej-es  would  ne'er  behold 
Again  bring  home  her  own  true  knight. 


Sir  Bgiltborn 


177 


While  many  a  sigh  her  bosom  heaves, 
She  thus  addressed  her  orphan  page  : — 

"  Dear  youth,  if  e'er  my  love  relieved 
The  sorrows  of  thy  infant  age  : 

"  If  e'er  I  taught  thy  locks  to  play, 
I^uxuriant  round  thy  blooming  face  ; 

If  e'er  I  wiped  thy  tears  away. 
And  bade  them  yield  to  smiles  their  place  : 

"  Oh  !  speed  thee,  swift  as  steed  can  bear, 
Where  Flodden  groans  with  heaps  of  dead ; 

And  o'er  the  combat,  home  repair. 
And  tell  me  how  my  lord  has  sped. 

"  Till  thou  return'st  each  hour  's  an  age. 
An  age  employed  in  doubt  and  pain  ; 

Oh  !  haste  thee,  haste,  my  little  foot-page, 
Oh  !  haste  and  soon  return  again." 

"  Now  lady  dear,  thy  grief  assuage, 
*     Good  tidings  soon  shall  ease  thy  pain ; 
11  '11  haste,  I  '11  haste,  thy  little  foot-page, 
I  '11  haste,  and  soon  return  again." 

Then  Osway  bade  his  courser  fly  ; 
But  still,  while  hapless  Eva  wept, 
.  ;?.s;|*Time  scarcely  seemed  his  wings  to  ply, 
^^    So  slow  the  tedious  moments  crept. 

And  oft  she  kissed  her  baby's  cheek, 
Who  slumbered  on  her  throbbing  breast ; 

And  now  she  bade  the  warder  speak. 
And  now  she  lulled  her  child  to  rest. 

"  Good  warder,  say,  what  meets  thy  sight? 

What  se'st  from  the  castle  tower?  " 
"  Nought  but  the  rocks  of  Elginbright, 

Nought  but  the  shades  of  Forest-Bower." 


178 


Sir  Bailtborn 


"  Oh,  pretty  babe  !  thy  mother's  joy, 
Pledge  of  the  purest,  fondest  flame. 

To-morrow's  sun,  dear  helpless  boy, 
May  see  thee  bear  an  orphan's  name. 

"  Perhaps,  e'en  now,  some  Scottish  sword 
The  life-blood  of  thy  father  drains ; 

Perhaps,  e'en  now,  that  heart  is  gored, 
Whose  streams  supplied  thy  little  veins. 

"  O  warder,  from  the  castle  tower, 
Now  say  what  objects  meet  thy  sight  ?  " 

"  None  but  the  shades  of  Forest-Bower, 
None  but  the  rocks  of  Elginbright." 

"  Smil'st  thou,  my  babe  ?  so  smiled  thy  sire. 
When  gazing  on  his  Eva's  face  ; 

His  eyes  shot  beams  of  gentle  fire. 
And  joyed  such  beams  in  mine  to  trace. 

"Sleep,  sleep,  my  babe  !  of  care  devoid  : 
Thy  mother  breathes  this  fervent  vow — 

Oh,  never  be  thy  soul  employed 
On  thoughts  so  sad  as  hers  are  now  ! 

"Now  warder,  warder,  speak  again  ! 

What  se'st  thou  from  the  turret's  height  ?  " 
"  Oh,  lady,  speeding  o'er  the  plain. 

The  little  foot-page  appears  in  sight ! ' ' 

Quick  beat  her  heart,  short  grew  her  breath  ; 

Close  to  her  breast  the  babe  she  drew — 
"  Now,  Heayen,"  shecried," for lifeor death  ! ' 

And  forth  to  meet  the  page  she  flew. 

"  And  is  thy  lord  from  danger  free  ? 

And  is  the  deadly  combat  o'er?  "— 
In  silence  Osway  bent  his  knee, 

And  laid  a  scarf  her  feet  before. 


Sir  Bgiltborn 


179 


The  well-known  scarf  with  blood  was  stained, 
And  tears  from  Osway's  eyelids  fell ; 

Too  truly  Bva's  heart  explained, 
What  meant  those  silent  tears  to  tell. 

"  Come,  come,  my  babe  !  "  she  wildly  cried, 
"  We  needs  must  seek  the  field  of  woe  : 

Come,  come,  ray  babe  !  cast  fear  aside  ! 
To  dig  thy  father's  gave  we  go." 

"  Stay,  lady,  stay  !  a  storm  impends  ; 

Lo  !  threatening  clouds  the  sky  o'erspread ; 
The  thunder  roars,  the  rain  descends. 

And  lightning  streaks  the  heavens  with  red. 

"  Hark,  hark !  the  winds  tempestuous  rave  ! 

Oh  !  be  thy  dread  intent  resigned  ! 
Or,  if  resolved  the  storm  to  brave. 

Be  this  dear  infant  left  behind  !  " 

"  No,  no !  with  me  the  baby  stays  ! 
With  me  he  lives  ;  with  me  he  dies ! 
lash,  lightnings,  flash  !  your  friendly  blaze 
Will  shew  me  where  my  warrior  lies." 

O  see  she  roams  the  bloody  field, 
And  wildly  shrieks  her  husband's  name  : 
-^  O  see  she  stops  and  eyes  a  shield, 
A  heart  the  symbol,  wrapt  in  flame. 

His  armour  broke  in  many  a  place, 
A  knight  lay  stretched  that  shield  beside ; 

She  raised  his  vizor,  kissed  his  face. 
Then  on  his  bosom  sunk  and  died. 

Huntsman,  their  rustic  grave  behold  : 
'T  is  here,  at  night,  the  fairy  king. 

Where  sleeps  the  fair,  where  sleeps  the  bold, 
Oft  forms  his  light  fantastic  ring. 


i8o 


Sir  Bgfltborn 


'T  is  here,  at  eve,  each  village  youth 
With  freshest  flowers  the  turf  adorns ; 

'T  is  here  he  swears  eternal  truth, 
By  Eva's  faith  and  Agilthom's. 

And  here  the  \drgins  sadly  tell, 
Each  seated  by  her  shepherd's  side, 

How  brave  the  gallant  warrior  fell, 
How  true  his  lovely  lady  died. 

Ah  !  gentle  huntsman,  pitying  hear. 
And  mourn  the  gentle  lovers'  doom  ! 

Oh  !  gentle  huntsman,  drop  a  tear, 
And  dew  the  turf  of  Eva's  tomb. 

So  ne'er  may  fate  thj'  hopes  oppose  ; 

So  ne'er  may  grief  to  thee  be  known  : 
They  who  can  weep  for  others'  -^ro--^, 

Should  ne'er  have  cause  to  '■^'^en  their 
own. 


S^obnie  ot  :fi3rcaDi6lee 


i8i 


JOHNIJS  OF  BREADISIvEE.* 

Johnie  rose  up  in  a  May  morning,     . 

Called  for  water  to  wash  his  hands— 
"Gar  loose  to  me  the  gude  graie  dogs, 

That  are  bound  wi'  iron  bands." 

When  Johnie's  mother  gat  word  o'  that, 
Her  hands  for  dule  she  wrang — 

"  O  Johnie  !  for  my  benison, 
To  the  greenwood  dinna  gang  ! 


»  See  Appendix. 


l82 


5obnfe  ot  JBreaMslee 


"  Eneugh  ye  hae  o'  gude  wheat  bread, 

And  eneugh  o'  the  blude-red  wine  ; 
And,  therefore,  for  nae  venison,  Johnie, 

I  pray  thee,  stir  frae  hame." 
But  Johnie  's  busk't  up  his  gude  bend  bow, 

His  arrows,  ane  by  ane  ; 
And  he  has  gane  to  Durrisdeer, 

To  hunt  the  dun  deer  down. 
As  he  came  down  by  Merriemass, 

And  in  by  the  benty  line, 
There  has  he  espied  a  deer  lying 

Aneath  a  bush  of  ling. 
Johnie  he  shot,  and  the  dun  deer  lap. 

And  he  wounded  her  on  the  side  ; 
But,  atween  the  water  and  the  brae, 

His  hounds  they  laid  her  pride. 
And  Johnie  has  br\i;tled  the  deer  sae  weel. 

That  he  's  had  out  her  liver  and  lungs ; 
And  wi'  these  he  has  feasted  his  bluidy 

As  if  thej'  had  been  earl's  sons,     [hounds, 
,-  They  eat  sae  much  o'  the  venison, 

And  drank  sae  much  o*  the  blude, 
That  Johnie  and  a'  his  bluidy  hounds. 

Fell  asleep  as  they  had  been  dead. 
And  by  there  came  a  sillj'  auld  carle, 

An  ill  death  mote  he  die  ! 
For  he  's  awa  to  Hislinton, 

Where  the  seven  foresters  did  lie. 
"What  news,  what  news,  ye  gray  headed 

What  news  bring  ye  to  me  ?  ' '  [carle, 

"  I  bring  nae  news,"  said  the  gray  headed 

"  Save  what  these  eyes  did  see.         [carle, 
"  As  I  came  down  by  Merriemass, 

And  down  among  the  scroggs, 


5obuie  of  JBrea&islec 


183 


-.i^S^CSB^* 


The  bonniest  childe  that  ever  I  saw, 

Ivay  sleeping  amang  his  dogs. 
"  The  shirt  that  was  upon  his  back 

Was  o'  the  holland  fine  ; 
The  doublet  which  was  over  that 

Was  o'  the  lincome  twine. 
"The  buttons  that  were  on  his  sleeve 

Were  o'  the  goud  sae  gude  : 
The  gude  graie  hounds  he  lay  amang, 

Their  mouths  were  dyed  wi'  blude." 
Then  out  and  spak  the  first  forester, 

The  heid  man  ower  them  a' — 
"  If  this  be  Johnie  o'  Breadislee, 

Nae  nearer  will  we  draw." 
But  up  and  spak  the  sixth  forester 

(His  sister's  son  was  he), 
"  If  this  be  Johnie  o'  Breadislee, 

We  soon  shall  gar  him  die  ! ' ' 
The  first  flight  of  arrows  the  foresters  shot. 

They  wounded  him  on  the  knee  ; 
And  out  and  spak  the  seventh  forester, 

"The  next  will  gar  him  die." 
Johnie  's  set  his  back  against  an  aik, 

His  fute  against  a  stane  ; 
And  he  has  slain  the  seven  foresters. 

He  has  slain  them  a'  but  ane. 
He  has  broke  three  ribs  in  that  ane's  side. 

But  and  his  collar  bane  ; 
He  's  laid  him  twa-fald  ower  his  steed. 

Bade  him  carry  the  tidings  hame. 
"  O  is  there  nae  a  bonnie  bird. 

Can  sing  as  I  can  say  ? — 
Could  flee  away  to  my  mother's  bower, 

And  tell  to  fetch  Johnie  away  ?  " 


1 84 


5obnic  of  JSrca&islee 


The  starling  flew  to  his  mother's  window 
It  whistled  and  it  sang  ;  [stane. 

And  aye  the  ower  word  o'  the  tune 
Was — "  Johnie  tarries  lang  !  " 

They  made  a  rod  o'  the  hazel  bush, 
Another  o'  the  slae-thorn  tree, 

And  mony,  mony  were  the  men 
At  fetching  o'er  Johnie. 

Then  out  and  spak  his  auld  mother. 
And  fast  her  tears  did  fa' — 
Ye  wad  nae  be  warned,  my  son  Johnie, 
Frae  the  hunting  to  bide  awa'. 

"/'"Aft  hae  I  brought  to  Breadislee, 
The  less  gear  and  the  mair  ; 
But  I  ne'er  brought  to  Breadislee, 
What  grieved  my  heart  sae  sair. 

"  But  wae  betide  that  silly  auld  carle, 

An  ill  death  shall  he  die  ! 
For  the  highest  tree  in  ^lerriemass 

Shall  be  his  morning's  fee." 

Now  Johnie's  gude  bend  bow  is  broke, 
And  his  gude  graie  dogs  are  slain  ; 

And  his  bodie  lies  dead  in  Durrisdeer, 
And  his  hunting  it  is  done. 


XLbc  Bowie  5)en6  ot  farrow 


185 


»  See  Appendix. 


i86 


Jlhe  Dowie  2)cn5  of  l^arrow 


"  O  fare  ye  weel,  my  ladye  gaye  ! 

0  fare  ye  weel,  my  Sarah  ! 

For  I  maun  gae,  though  I  ne'er  return 
Frae  the  dowie  banks  o'  Yarrow." 

She  kissed  his  cheek,  she  kaimed  his  hair. 

As  oft  she  had  done  before,  O  ; 
She  belted  him  with  his  noble  brand, 

And  he  's  away  to  Yarrow. 

As  he  gaed  up  the  Tennies  bank, 

1  wot  he  gaed  -wi'  sorrow,  [men. 
Till,  down  in  a  den,  he  spied  nine  armed 

On  the  dowie  houms  of  Yarrow. 

''  O  !  come  ye  here  to  part  your  land. 

The  bonnie  forest  thorough  ? 
Or  come  ye  here  to  wield  j-our  brand, 

On  the  dowie  houms  of  Yarrow  ?  ' ' — 

"  I  come  not  here  to  part  my  land. 
And  neither  to  beg  nor  borrow  ; 

I  come  to  wield  my  noble  brand, 
On  the  bonnie  banks  of  Yarrow." 

"  If  I  see  all,  ye  're  nine  to  ane. 
And  that 's  an  unequal  marrow  ; 

Yet  will  I  fight  while  lasts  my  brand, 
On  the  bonnie  banks  of  Yarrow." 

Four  has  he  hurt,  and  five  has  slain, 
On  the  bonnie  braes  of  Yarrow  ; 

Till  that  stubborn  knight  came  him  behind, 
And  ran  his  body  thorough. 

"  Gae  hame,  gae  hame,  good  brother  John, 

And  tell  your  sister  Sarah 
To  come  and  lift  her  leafu'  lord ; 

He  's  sleeping  sound  on  Yarrow." — 


^be  Dowte  Bens  of  l^arrow  187 


"  Yest'reen  I  dreamed  a  dolefu'  dream  ;  * 

I  fear  there  will  be  sorrow  ! 
I  dream.ed  I  pu'd  the  heather  green, 

Wi'  my  true  love,  on  Yarrow. 

"  O  gentle  wind,  that  bloweth  south, 
From  where  my  love  repaireth, 

Convey  a  kiss  from  his  dear  mouth, 
And  tell  me  how  he  fareth  ! 

"  But  in  the  glen  strive  arm^d  men  ; 

They  've  wrought  me  dole  and  sorrow  ; 
They  've   slain — the  comeliest  knight 
they  've  slain, 

He  bleeding  lies  on  Yarrow." 

As  she  sped  down  yon  high  high  hill. 
She  gaed  wi'  dole  and  sorrow  ; 

And  in  the  den  spied  ten  slain  men. 
On  the  dowie  banks  of  Yarrow. 


»  The  following  is  the  fragment  given  by  Mr.  Herd, 
'to  the  tune  of  Leaderhaughs  and  Yarrow  "  : 

"  I  dream'd  a  dreary  dream  last  night; 
God  keep  us  a'  frae  sorrow  ; 
I  dream'd  I  pu'd  the  birk  sae  green, 
Wi'  my  true  luve  on  Yarrow." 

"1  '11  read  your  dream,  my  sister  dear, 
I  '11  tell  you  a'  your  sorrow  ; 
You  pu'd  thf-  birk  wi'  your  true  love  ; 
He  's  kill'd,  he  's  kill'd,  on  Yarrow." 


'  O  gentle  wind,  that  bloweth  south. 

To  where  my  luve  repaireth, 
Convey  a  kiss  from  his  dear  mouth. 
And  tell  me  how  he  fareth. 


'  But  o'er  yon  glen  run  armSd  men. 

Have  wrought  me  dule  and  sorrow  ; 
They  've  slain,  they  've  slain,  ta  comeliest  swain, 
He  bleeding  lies  on  Yarrow." 


i88 


Zbc  Bowie  Deng  of  l^arrow 


She  kissed  his  cheek,  she  kaimed  his  hair, 
She  searched  his  wounds  all  thorough  ; 

She  kissed  them  till  her  lips  grew  red, 
On  the  dowie  houms  of  Yarrow. 


"  Now  haud  j-our  tongue,   mj'  daughter 
dear ! 

For  a'  this  breeds  but  sorrow  ; 
I  '11  wed  thee  to  a  better  lord 

Than  him  ye  lost  on  Yarrow." 

"  O  haud  j'our  tongue,  my  father  dear ; 

Ye  mind  me  but  of  sorrow ; 
A  fairer  rose  did  never  bloom 

Than  now  lies  cropped  on  Yarrow." 


UNIVERSITY 


*  See  Appendix 


igo 


Ebc  JBonuie  JSairng 


The  tane  it  pull'd  a  red,  red  rose, 

With  a  hand  as  soft  as  silk  ; 
The  other,  it  pull'd  the  lily  pale, 

With  a  hand  mair  white  than  mUk. 

"  Now,  why  pull  ye  the  red  rose,  fair  bairns  ? 

And  why  the  white  lily  ? ' ' 
"  O  we  sue  wi'  them  at  the  seat  of  grace. 

For  the  soul  of  thee,  ladie  ! ' ' 

"  O  bide  wi'  me,  my  twa  bonnie  bairns  ! 

I  '11  cleid  ye  rich  and  fine  ; 
And  all  for  the  blaeberries  of  the  wood, 
)[     Yese  hae  white  bread  and  wine." 

She  heard  a  voice,  a  sweet  low  voice, 
Saj-,  "  Weans,  j'e  tarry  long- " —       [bairn, 

-he  stretch 'd  her  hand  to  the    youngest 
"  Kiss  me  before  ye  gang." 

She  sought  to  take  a  lily  hand, 

And  kiss  a  rosie  chin — 
"  O,  nought  sae  pure  can  bide  the  touch 
.    Of  a  hand  red- wet  wi'  sin  !  " 

The  stars  were  shooting  to  and  fro. 
And  wild  fire  fill'd  the  air, 
5  As  that  lady  followed  thae  bonnie  bairns 
i      For  three  lang  hours  and  mair. 

'  O  !  where  dwell  ye,  my  ain  sweet  bairns? 

I  'm  woe  and  weary  grown  ! " 
"  O  !  lady,  we  live  w^here  woe  never  is. 
In  a  land  to  flesh  unknown." 

There  came  a  shape  which  seem'd  to  her 

As  a  rainbow  'mang  the  rain  ; 
And  sair  these  sweet  babes  pled  for  her, 

And  they  pled  and  pled  in  vain. 


Ube  3Bonnie  :JiSairn0  191 


"  And  O  !  and  O  !  "  said  the  youngest  babe, 

"  My  mother  maun  come  in  "  : 
"  And  O  !  and  O  !  "  said  the  eldest  babe, 

"  Wash  her  twa  hands  frae  sin." 
"  And  O  !  and  O !  "  said  the  youngest  babe, 

"  She  nursed  me  on  her  knee"  : 
"  And  O  !  and  O  !  "  said  the  eldest  babe, 

"  She  's  a  mither  yet  to  me."  * 

*  The  following  is  Motherwell's  copy,  referred  to  in 
the  Introduction,  and  is  thus  prefaced  :— "  A  small  frag- 
ment of  this  ballad  appeared  in  the  introductory  note  to 
the  ballad  of  Lady  Anne,  printed  in  the  Border  Min- 
strelsy, vol.  ii.  Through  the  kindness  of  a  friend  we 
are  now  enabled  to  give  the  ballad  in  a  complete  state. 
Like  many  other  ancient  pieces  of  a  similar  description, 
it  has  a  burden  of  no  meaning  and  much  cliildishness  ; 
the  repetition  of  which,  at  the  end  of  the  first  and  third 
lines  of  every  stanza,  has  been  omitted.  The  reader, 
however,  has  a  right  to  have  the  ballad  as  we  received 
it;  and  therefore  he  may,  in  the  first  of  the  places 
pointed  out,  insert,  '  Three,  three,  and  three  by  three; ' 
and  in  the  second,  'Three,  three,  and  thirty-three;' 
which  will  give  him  it  entire  and  unmutilated." 

She  leaned  her  back  unto  a  thorn' 
And  there  she  had  her  two  babes  born. 

She  took  frae  'bout  her  ribbon-belt 

And  there  she  bound  them  hand  and  foot. 

She  has  ta'en  out  her  wee  pen-knife 
And  there  she  ended  baith  their  life. 

She  has  howked  a  hole  baith  deep  and  wide. 
She  has  put  them  in  baith  side  by  side. 

She  has  cover'd  them  o'er  -with  a  marble  stone. 
Thinking  she  would  gang  maiden  hame. 

As  she  was  walking  by  her  father's  castle  wa'. 
She  saw  twa  pretty  babes  playing  at  the  ba'. 

"  O  bonny  bairns,  gin  ye  were  mine, 
I  would  dress  you  up  in  satin  fine ! 

"  O  I  would  dress  you  in  the  silk 
And  wash  you  ay  in  morning  milk  !  " 

"  O  cruel  mother  I  we  were  thine. 
And  thou  made  us  to  wear  the  twine. 

*0  cursed  mother  1  heaven  is  high. 
And  that  's  where  thou  '11  ne'er  win  nigh 

"  O  cursed  mother  !  hell  is  deep. 
And  there  ihon  'U  enter  step  by  step." 


192 


trbc  JSonnfc  JBairn^ 


"  And  O  !  and  O  !  "  said  the  babes  baith, 

"  Take  her  where  waters  rin, 
And  white  as  the  milk  of  her  white  breast, 

Wash  her  twa  hands  frae  sin." 


©lentinlag 


193 


And  fairn  Glenartney's  stateliest  tree  ; 
We  ne'er  shall  see  Lord  Ronald  more ! 


'  See  Appendix. 


194 


0lentinla6 


O,  sprung  from  great  Macgillianore, 
The  chief  that  never  fear'd  a  foe, 

How  matchless  was  thy  broad  claymore, 
How  deadly  thine  unerring  bow  ! 

Well  can  the  Saxon  widows  tell, 
How,  on  the  Teitb's  resounding  shore. 

The  boldest  lowland  warriors  fell, 
As  down  from  Lenny's  pass  j'ou  bore. 

But  o'er  his  hills,  in  festal  day. 

How  blazed  Lord  Ronald's  beltane-tree, 
While  j'ouths  and  maids  the  light  strathspey 

So  nimbly  danced  with  Highland  glee  ! 

"-.eer'd  by  the  strengfth  of  Ronald's  shell, 
Wen  age  forgot  his  tresses  hoar ; 
But  now  the  loud  lament  we  swell, 
O  ne'er  to  see  I^rd  Ronald  more ! 

From  distant  isles  a  chieftain  came, 
The  joj-s  of  Ronald's  halls  to  find. 

And  chase  with  him  the  dark-brown  game, 
That  bounds  o'er  Albin's  hills  of  wind. 

Twas  Moy  ;  whom  in  Columba's  isle 
The  seer's  prophetic  spirit  found. 

As,  with  a  minstrel's  fire  the  while, 
He  waked  his  harp's  harmonious  sound. 

Full  many  a  spell  to  him  was  known, 
"Which  wandering  spirits  shrink  to  hear ; 

And  many  a  lay  of  potent  tone. 
Was  never  meant  for  mortal  ear. 

For  there,  't  is  said,  in  mystic  mood, 
High  converse  with  the  dead  they  hold, 

And  oft  espy  the  fated  shroud. 
That  shall  the  future  corpse  enfold. 


(5lentinla6 


195 


-  ^-^ri 


O  so  it  fell,  that  on  a  day, 

To  rouse  the  red  deer  from  their  den, 
The  Chiefs  have  ta'en  their  distant  way, 

And  scoured  the  deep  Glenfinlas  glen. 

No  vassals  wait  their  sports  to  aid. 
To  watch  their  safety,  deck  their  board ; 

Their  simple  dress,  the  Highland  plaid, 
Their  trusty  guard,  the  Highland  sword. 

Three  summer  days,  through  brake  and  dell, 
Their  whistling  shafts  successful  flew  ; 

And  still,  when  dewy  evening  fell, 
The  quarry  to  their  hut  they  drew. 

f  In  g^rey  Glenfinlas'  deepest  nook 

^      The  solitary  cabin  stood, 

J  Fast  by  Moneira's  sullen  brook. 

Which  murmurs  through  that  lonely  wood. 

Soft  fell  the  night,  the  sky  was  calm. 
When  three  successive  days  had  flown  ; 

Vnd  summer  mist  in  dewy  balm 
Steep'd  heathy  bank,  and  mossy  stone 

1  The  moon,  half-hid  in  silvery  flakes, 
/      Afar  her  dubious  radiance  shed, 
\  Quivering  on  Katrine's  distant  lakes. 
And  resting  on  Benledi's  head. 

M  Now  in  their  hut,  in  social  guise. 
Their  silvan  fare  the  Chiefs  enjoy ; 
':  -^'^'^''^^  -^^d  pleasure  laughs  in  Ronald's  eyes, 
— -^''^'^  As  many  a  pledge  he  quaffs  to  Moy. 

"  What  lack  we  here  to  crown  our  bliss, 
While  thus  the  pulse  of  joy  beats  high? 

What,  but  fair  woman's  yielding  kiss. 
Her  panting  breath  and  melting  eye  ? 


196 


(31enfinla£$ 


.^^^ 


"To  chase  the  deer  of  yonder  shades, 
This  morning  left  their  father's  pile 

The  fairest  of  our  mountain  maids, 
The  daughters  of  the  proud  Glengyle. 

"  Ix>ng  have  I  sought  sweet  Mary's  heart. 
And  dropp'dthe  tear,  and  heaved  the  sigh ; 

But  vain  the  lover's  wily  art, 
Beneath  a  sister's  watchful  eye. 

'  But  thou  may'st  teach  that  guardian  fair. 

While  far  with  Mary  I  am  flown, 
Of  other  hearts  to  cease  her  care, 
And  find  it  hard  to  guard  her  own. 

'  Touch  but  thy  harp,  thou  soon  shalt  see 

The  lovely  Flora  of  Glengyle,     . 
Unmindful  of  her  charge  and  me. 
Hang  on  thy  notes,  'twixt  tear  and  smile. 

'  Or,  if  she  choose  a  melting  tale, 
All  underneath  the  greenwood  bough, 

Will  good  St.  Oman's  rule  prevail, 
Stern  huntsman  of  the  rigid  brow?  " — 

'  Since  Enrick's  fight,  since  INIoma's  death, 
No  more  on  me  shall  rapture  rise, 

Responsive  to  the  panting  breath, 
Or  yielding  kiss,  or  melting  eyes. 

'  "  E'en  then,  when  o'er  the  heath  of  woe, 
Where  sunk  my  hopes  of  love  and  fame, 

I  bade  my  harp's  wild  wailings  flow. 
On  me  the  Seer's  sad  spirit  came. 

"  The  last  dread  curse  of  angry  heaven. 
With  ghastly  sights  and  sounds  of  woe, 

To  dash  each  glimpse  of  joy  was  given — 
The  gift,  the  future  ill  to  know. 


(Blenfinlas 


197 


"  The  bark  thou  saw'st,  yon  summer  mom, 

So  gaily  part  from  Oban's  bay, 
My  eye  beheld  her  dash'd  and  torn, 

Far  on  the  rocky  Colonsay. 

"  Thy  Fergus  too — thy  sister's  son,  [power. 
Thou   saw'st,  with   pride,   the  gallant's 

As  marching  'gainst  the  lyord  of  Downe, 
He  left  the  skirts  of  huge  Benmore. 

"  Thou  only  saw'st  their  tartans  wave. 
As  down  Benvoirlich's  side  they  wound, 

Heard'st  but  the  pibroch,  answering  brave 
To  many  a  target  clanking  round. 

"  I  heard  the  groans,  I  mark'd  the  tears, 
I  saw  the  wound  his  bosom  bore. 

When  on  the  serried  Saxon  spears 
He  pour'd  his  clan's  resistless  roar. 

"  And  thou,  who  bidst  me  think  of  bliss, 
And  bidst  my  heart  awake  to  glee. 

And  court,  like  thee,  the  wanton  kiss — 
That  heart,  O  Ronald,  bleeds  for  thee ! 

"  I  see  the  death-damps  chill  thy  brow ; 

I  hear  thy  Warning  Spirit  cry ;    [now  .  .  . 
The  corpse-lights  dance — they're  gone,  and 

No  more  is  given  to  gifted  eye  ! ' ' — 

"  Alone  enjoy  thy  dreary  dreams. 

Sad  prophet  of  the  evil  hour  ! 
Say,  should  we  scorn  joy's  transient  beams. 

Because  to-morrow's  storm  may  lour  ? 

"  Or  false,  or  sooth,  thy  words  of  woe, 
Clangillian's  Chieftain  ne'er  shall  fear ; 

His  blood  shall  bound  at  rapture's  glow, 
Though  doom'd  to  stain  the  Saxon  spear. 


igS 


(3lenf!nla0 


"  E'en  now,  to  meet  me  in  yon  dell, 
My  Mary's  buskins  brush  the  dew." 

He  spoke,  nor  bade  the  Chief  farewell, 
But  call'd  his  dogs,  and  gay  withdrew. 

Within  an  hour  return 'd  each  hound  ; 

In  rush'd  the  rousers  of  the  deer ; 
Thej'  howl'd  in  melancholy  sound. 

Then  closely  couch 'd  beside  the  seer. 

No  Ronald  yet ;  though  midnight  came. 
And  sad  were  Moy's  prophetic  dreams. 

As,  bending  o'er  the  dying  fiame, 
He  fed  the  watch-fire's  quivering  gleams. 

Sudden  the  hounds  erect  their  ears. 
And  sudden  cease  their  moaning  howl ; 

Close  press'd  to  Moy,  they  mark  their  fears 
By  shivering  limbs,  and  stifled  growl. 

Untouch'd,  the  harp  began  to  ring, 
As  softly,  slowly,  oped  the  door ; 

And  shook  responsive  every  string, 
As  light  a  footstep  press'd  the  floor. 

And  by  the  watch-fire's  glimmering  light, 
Close  by  the  minstrel's  side  was  seen 

An  huntress  maid,  in  beautN^  bright. 
All  dropping  wet  her  robes  of  green. 

=  All  dropping  wet  her  garments  seem  ; 
Chill'd  was  her  cheek,  her  bosom  bare, 
g^    As,  bending  o'er  the  dying  gleam, 
^  She  wrung  the  moisture  from  her  hair. 

"With  maiden  blush  she  softly  said, 
"  O  gentle  huntsman,  hast  thou  seen, 

In  deep  Glenfinlas'  moonlight  glade, 
A  lovely  maid  in  vest  of  gfreen  : 


6Ientin[a6 


199 


' '  With  her  a  Chief  in  Highland  pride  ; 

His  shoulders  bear  the  hunter's  bow, 
The  mountain  dirk  adorns  his  side, 

Far  on  the  wind  his  tartans  flow?  " — 

"  And  who  art  thou  ?  and  who  are  they  ?  " 
All  ghastly  gazing,  Moy  replied  : 

''  And  why,  beneath  the  moon's  pale  ray. 
Dare  ye  thus  roam  Glenfinlas'  side  ?  " — 

"Where  wild  I^och  Katrine  pours  her  tide. 
Blue,  dark,  and  deep,  round  many  an  isle, 

Our  father's  towers  o'erhang  her  side, 
The  castle  of  the  bold  Glengyle. 

"To  chase  the  dun  Glenfinlas  deer. 

Our  woodland  course  this  morn  we  bore, 
And  haply  met,  while  wandering  here, 
\     The  son  of  great  Macgillianore. 

"  O  aid  me,  then,  to  seek  the  pair, 
Whom,  loitering  in  the  woods,  I  lost ; 

Alone,  I  dare  not  venture  there,  [ghost." — 
Where    walks,  they  say,  the    shrieking 

' '  Yes,  many  a  shrieking  ghost  walks  there  ; 

Then  first,  my  own  sad  vow  to  keep, 
Here  will  I  pour  my  midnight  prayer, 

Which  still  must  rise  when  mortalssleep. '  '— 

"  O  first,  for  pity's  gentle  sake, 
Guide  a  lone  wanderer  on  her  way  ! 

For  I  must  cross  the  haunted  brake. 
And  reach  my  father's  towers  ere  day."— 

"  First,  three  times  tell  each  Ave-bead, 

And  thrice  a  Pater-noster  say  ; 
Then  kiss  with  me  the  holy  rede  ; 

go  shall  we  safely  wend  our  way."-^ 


200 


Glcntlnlas 


"  O  shame  to  knighthood,  strange  and  foul ! 

Go,  doff  the  bonnet  from  thy  brow, 
And  shroud  thee  in  the  monkish  cowl, 

"Which  best  befits  thy  sullen  vow. 

}.  "  Not  so,  by  high  Dunlathmon's  fire, 
Thy  heart  was  froze  to  love  and  joy. 
When  gaily  rung  thy  raptured  lyre. 
To  wanton  Moma's  melting  eye." 

Wild  stared  the  minstrel's  eyes  of  flame. 
And  high  his  sable  locks  arose, 

And  quick  his  colour  went  and  came. 
As  fear  and  rage  alternate  rose. 

■ '  And  thou  !  when  by  the  blazing  oak 
I  lay,  to  her  and  love  resign'd. 

Say,  rode  ye  on  the  eddying  smoke. 
Or  sail'd  ye  on  the  midnight  wind  1 

"  Not  thine  a  race  of  mortal  blood, 
Nor  old  Glengyle's  pretended  line  ; 

Thy  dame,  the  I,ady  of  the  Flood, 
Thy  sire,  the  Monarch  of  the  Mine." 

He  mutter'd  thrice  St.  Oran's  rhyme. 
And  thrice  St.  Fillan's*  powerful  prayer ; 

Then  tum'd  him  to  the  eastern  clime. 
And  sternly  shook  his  coal-black  hair. 

And,  bending  o'er  his  harp,  he  flung 
His  wildest  witch-notes  on  the  wind  ; 

And  loud,  and  high,  and  strange,  they  rung. 
As  many  a  magic  change  they  find. 


•  In  a  note  to  Mannion,  we  are  told  that  St.  Fillan  was  a  Scottish  saint  of  some 
reputation,  whose  wells  and  springs  are  still  places  of  pilgrimage  and  offering  : 

"  St.  Fillan's  blessed  well, 
Whose  spring  can  frenzied  dreams  dispel, 
And  the  crazed  brain  restore." 


(Blenfinlad 


Tall  wax'd  the  Spirit's  altering  form, 
Till  to  the  roof  her  stature  grew  ; 

Then,  mingling  with  the  rising  storm, 
With  one  wild  yell  away  she  flew. 

Rain  beats,  hail  rattles,  whirlwinds  tear  : 
The  slender  hut  in  fragments  flew ; 

But  not  a  lock  of  Moy's  loose  hair 
Was  waved  by  wind,  or  wet  by  dew. 

Wild  mingling  with  the  howling  gale, 
lyoud  bursts  of  ghastly  laughter  rise  ; 

High  o'er  the  minstrel's  head  they  sail, 
And  die  amid  the  northern  skies. 

The  voice  of  thunder  shook  the  wood, 

As  ceased  the  more  than  mortal  yell ; 
\nd,  spattering  foul,  a  shower  of  blood 
Upon  the  hissing  firebrands  fell. 

Next  dropp'd  from  high  a  mangled  arm  ; 

The  fingers  strain 'd  an  half-drawn  blade  : 
And  last,  the  life-blood  streaming  warm. 

Torn  from  the  trunk,  a  gasping  head. 

Oft  o'er  that  head,  in  battling  field, 
Stream'dtheproud  crest  of  high  Benmore ; 

That  arm  the  broad  claymore  could  wield, 
Which  dyed  the  Teith  with  Saxon  gore. 

Woe  to  Moneira's  sullen  rills  ! 

Woe  to  Glenfinlas'  dreary  glen  ! 
There  never  son  of  Albin's  hills 

Shall  draw  the  hunter's  shaft  agen  ! 

E'en  the  tired  pilgrim's  burning  feet 
At  noon  shall  shun  that  sheltering  den, 

I^est,  journeying  in  their  rage,  he  meet 
The  wayward  Ladies  of  the  Glen. 


6lcnt!nlas 


And  we— behind  the  Chieftain's  shield, 
No  more  shall  we  in  safety  dwell ; 

None  leads  the  people  to  the  field— 
And  we  the  loud  lament  must  swell. 

O  hone  a  rie' !  O  hone  a  rie' ! 
The  pride  of  Albin's  line  is  o'er ! 
^And  fall'n  Glenartney's  stateliest  tree  ; 
We  ne'er  shall  see  I^rd  Ronald  more  ! 


^be  0ai2  (3o06:=l)awk 


203 


goss-hawk, 
Gin  your  feathering  be  sheen  ! ' ' — 
"  And  waly,  waly,  my  master  dear, 
Gin  ye  look  pale  and  lean  ! 

"  O  have  ye  tint,  at  tournament, 
Your  sword,  or  yet  your  spear? 

Or  mourn  ye  for  the  Southern  lass, 
r^r^^       Whom  ye  may  not  win  near?  " — 

"  I  have  not  tint,  at  tournament. 
My  sword,  nor  yet  my  spear ; 

But  sair  I  mourn  for  my  true  love, 
Wi'  mony  a  bitter  tear. 


3ee  Appendix 


204 


XLbc  0ai5  0O66*l)awk 


"  But  weel's  me  on  ye,  my  gay  goss-hawk. 

Ye  can  baith  speak  and  flee  ; 
Ve  sail  carry  a  letter  to  my  love, 

Bring  an  answer  back  to  me." — 

'  But  how  sail  I  j'our  true  love  find, 

Or  how  suld  I  her  know  ? 
I  bear  a  tongue  ne'er  wi'  her  spake, 
An  eye  that  ne'er  her  saw." — 

"  O  weel  sail  ye  my  true  love  ken, 

Sae  sune  as  ye  her  see ; 
For,  of  a'  the  flowers  of  fair  England, 

The  fairest  flower  is  she. 

"  The  red,  that 's  on  my  true  love's  cheek. 

Is  like  blood-drops  on  the  snaw  ; 
The  white,  that  is  on  her  breast  bare, 

I^ike  the  down  o'  the  white  sea-maw. 

"And  even  at  my  love's  bour-door 

There  grows  a  flowering  birk  ; 
And  ye  maun  sit  and  sing  thereon 
.    As  she  gangs  to  the  kirk. 

"  And  four-and-twenty  fair  ladyes 

Will  to  the  mass  repair ; 
But  weel  may  ye  my  ladye  ken. 

The  fairest  ladye  there." 

Ix>rd  William  has  written  a  love-letter, 

Put  it  under  his  pinion  gray  ; 
And  he  is  awa  to  Southern  land 

As  fast  as  wings  can  gae. 

And  even  at  the  ladye's  hour 
There  grew  a  flowering  birk  ; 

And  he  sat  down  and  sung  thereon 
As  she  gaed  to  the  kirk. 


Zhc  0ai2  (5o06s1bawk 


205 


And  weel  he  kent  that  ladye  fair 
Amang  her  maidens  free  ;  [^^S> 

For  the  flower,  that  springs  in  May  mom- 
Was  not  sae  sweet  as  she. 

He  lighted  at  the  ladye 's  yate, 

And  sat  him  on  a  pin  ; 
And  sang  fu'  sweet  the  notes  o'  love, 

Till  a'  was  cosh  within. 

And  first  he  sang  a  low  low  note. 

And  syne  he  sang  a  clear  ; 
And  aye  the  o'erword  o'  the  sang 

Was — "Your  love  can  no  win  here." — 

^  "  Feast  on,  feast  on,  my  maidens  a', 
The  wine  flows  you  amang. 
While  I  gang  to  my  shot-window, 
And  hear  yon  bonny  bird's  sang. 

"  Sing  on,  sing  on,  my  bonny  bird, 

The  sang  ye  sung  yestreen  ; 
For  weel  I  ken,  by  your  sweet  singing, 

Ye  are  frae  my  true  love  sen." 

O  first  he  sang  a  merry  sang, 

And  syne  he  sang  a  grave  ; 
And  syne  he  pick'd  his  feathers  gray. 

To  her  the  letter  gave. 

"  Have  there  a  letter  from  I^ord  William ; 

He  says  he  's  sent  ye  three  ; 
He  canna  wait  your  love  langer. 

But  for  your  sake  he  '11  die." — 

"  Gae  bid  him  bake  his  bridal  bread. 

And  brew  his  bridal  ale  ; 
And  I  shall  meet  him  at  Mary's  kirk, 

Lang,  lang  ere  it  be  stale." 


2o6 


tTbc  ©as  (506s«f)awft 


The  lady  's  gane  to  her  chamber, 
And  a  moanfu'  woman  was  she  ; 

As  gin  she  had  ta'en  a  sudden  brash, 
And  were  about  to  die. 

''A  boon,  a  boon,  my  father  deir, 

A  boon  I  beg  of  thee  !  " 
"  Ask  not  that  haughty  Scottish  lord, 

For  him  you  ne'er  shall  see. 

"  But,  for  your  honest  asking  else, 

Weel  granted  it  shall  be.'  — 
"  Then,  gin  I  die  in  Southern  land, 

la  Scotland  gar  bury  me. 

' '  And  the  first  kirk  that  ye  come  to, 

Ye  's  gar  the  mass  be  sung ; 
And  the  next  kirk  that  ye  come  to, 

Ye  's  gar  the  bells  be  rung. 

"  And  when  ye  come  to  St.  Mary's  kirk, 
Ye  's  tarry  there  till  night." 

.\nd  so  her  father  pledg'd  his  word, 
And  so  his  promise  plight. 

She  has  ta'en  her  to  her  bigly  hour 

As  fast  as  she  could  fare  ; 
And  she  has  drank  a  sleepy  draught, 

That  she  had  mix'd  wi'  care. 

And  pale,  pale  grew  her  rosy  cheek. 

That  was  sae  bright  of  blee, 
And  she  seem'd  to  be  as  surely  dead 

As  any  one  could  be. 

Then  spake  her  cruel  step-minnie, 

"  Tak  ye  the  burning  lead, 
And  drap  a  drap  on  her  bosome. 

To  try  if  she  be  dead." 


tibe  6a^  (Bo60*1bawfe  207 

They  took  a  drap  o'  boiling  lead, 
They  drapp'd  it  on  her  breast ; 

"  Alas  !  alas ! "  her  father  cried, 
"  She  's  dead  without  the  priest." 

She  neither  chatter'd  with  her  teeth, 

Nor  shiver'd  with  her  chin  ; 
"  Alas  !  alas  !  "  her  father  cried, 

"There  is  nae  breath  within." 

Then  up  arose  her  seven  brethren, 

And  hew'd  to  her  a  bier ; 
They  hew'd  it  frae  the  solid  aik, 

I^aid  it  o'er  wi'  silver  clear. 

Then  up  and  gat  her  seven  sisters. 
And  sewed  to  her  a  kell ; 
-   And  every  steek  that  they  put  in 
Sewed  to  a  siller  bell. 

The  first  Scots  kirk  that  they  cam  to, 

They  garr'd  the  bells  be  rung ; 
The  next  Scots  kirk  that  they  cam  to, 
''      They  garr'd  the  mass  be  sung. 

Tr  But  when  they  cam  to  St.  Mary's  kirk, 
^r     There  stude  spearmen  all  on  a  raw  ; 
And  up  and  started  I^ord  William, 
The  chieftane  amang  the  a'. 

"  Set  down,  set  down  the  bier,"  he  said  ; 

"  I^et  me  look  her  upon  ' '  :  [hand. 

But  as  soon  as  lyord  William  touch 'd  her 

Her  colour  began  to  come. 

She  brightened  like  the  lily  flower, 
Till  her  pale  colour  was  gone 

With  rosy  cheek,  and  ruby  lip. 
She  smiled  her  love  upon. 


2o8 


XLbc  0ai2  ©osssftawft 


"  A  morsel  of  j-our  bread,  my  lord, 
And  one  glass  of  your  wine  ; 

For  I  hae  fasted  these  three  lang  days, 
All  for  your  sake  and  mine. — 

"Gae  hame,  gae  hame,  my  seven  bauld 
brothers ! 

Gae  hame  and  blaw  your  horn  ! 
I  trow  ye  wad  hae  gi'en  me  the  skaith, 

But  I  've  gi'en  you  the  scorn. 

"  Commend  me  to  my  grey  father, 
That  wished  my  saul  gude  rest ; 
But  wae  be  to  my  cruel  step-dame, 
^>i  &-^     Garr'd  bum  me  on  the  breast," — 

^  m 

^*  '  "  Ah  !  woe  to  you,  you  light  woman  ! 
An  ill  death  may  ye  die  ! 
For  we  left  father  and  sisters  at  hame 
Breaking  their  hearts  for  thee." 


Colin  ant)  Xuc^ 


20q 


COI.IN  AND  IvUCY.* 

Of  lyCinster,  fam'd  for  maidens  fair, 
Bright  lyucy  was  the  grace  ; 

Nor  e'er  did  I^iffy's  limpid  stream 
Reflect  so  fair  a  face. 


*  See  Appendix. 


2IO 


Colin  an&  %\xc^ 


Till  luckless  love  and  pining  care 

Impair'd  her  rosy  hue, 
Her  coral  lip,  and  damask  cheek, 

And  eyes  of  glossy  blue. 

Oh  !  have  you  seen  a  lily  pale, 
When  beating  rains  descend? 

So  droop 'd  the  slow-consuming  maid ; 
Her  life  nove  near  its  end. 

By  I^ucy  wam'd,  of  flattering  swains 

Take  heed,  ye  easy  fair  : 
Of  vengeance  due  to  broken  vows, 

Ye  perjured  swains  beware. 

Three  times,  all  in  the  dead  of  night, 

A  bell  was  heard  to  ring  ; 
And  at  her  window,  shrieking  thrice. 

The  raven  flapp'd  his  wing. 

Too  well  the  love-lorn  maiden  knew 
The  solemn  boding  sound  ; 

And  thus,  in  dying  words,  bespoke 
The  virgins  weeping  round. 

"  I  hear  a  voice  you  cannot  hear. 
Which  says,  I  must  not  stay  : 

I  see  a  hand  you  cannot  see. 
Which  beckons  me  away. 

"  By  a  false  heart,  and  broken  vows. 

In  early  youth  I  die. 
Am  I  to  blame,  because  his  bride 

Is  thrice  as  rich  as  I? 

"  Ah  Colin  !  give  not  her  thy  vows ; 

Vows  due  to  me  alone  ; 
Nor  thou,  fond  maid,  receive  his  kiss, 

Nor  think  him  all  thy  own. 


Cotln  atiD  Xuci? 


"  To-morrow  in  the  church  to  wed, 

Impatient,  both  prepare ; 
But  know,  fond  maid,  and  know,  false  man, 

That  Ivucy  will  be  there. 

"Then,  bear  my  corse,  ye  comrades,  bear, 
The  bridegroom  blithe  to  meet ; 

He  in  his  wedding-trim  so  gay, 
I  in  my  winding-sheet." 

She  spoke,  she  died ;— her  corse  was  borne. 
The  bridegroom  blithe  to  meet 

He  in  his  wedding-trim  so  gay. 
She  in  her  winding-sheet. 

Then  what  were  perjured  Colin 's  thoughts? 

How  were  those  nuptials  kept  ? 
The  bride-men  flock'd  round  I,ucy  dead. 

And  all  the  village  wept. 

Confusion,  shame,  remorse,  despair. 

At  once  his  bosom  swell : 
The  damps  of  death  bedew'd  his  brow, 

He  shook,  he  groan'd,  he  fell. 

From  the  vain  bride  (ah,  bride  no  more  !) 

The  varying  crimson  fled. 
When,  stretch'd  before  her  rival's  corse, 

She  saw  her  husband  dead. 

Then  to  his  IvUcy's  new-made  grave, 
Convey'd  by  trembling  swains, 

One  mould  with  her,  beneath  one  sod, 
For  ever  he  remains. 

Oft.  at  their  grave  the  constant  hind 

And  plighted  maid  are  seen  ; 
With  garlands  gay,  and  true-love  knots, 

They  deck  the  sacred  g^een. 


212 


Colin  anO  %\xc^ 


But,  swain  forsworn,  whoe'er  thou  art, 

This  hallow'd  spot  forbear  ; 
Remember  Colin 's  dreadful  fate, 
K*jjT  Si         And  fear  to  meet  him  there. 


Ikatbariue  5anfarfe 


213 


KATHARINE  JANFARIK.* 

There  was  a  may,  and  a  weel-far'd  may, 

I^ived  high  up  in  yon  glen  : 
Her  name  was  Katharine  Janfaric, 

She  was  courted  by  mony  men. 

Up  then  came  I^ord  I,auderdale, 
Up  frae  the  I^awland  Border ; 

And  he  has  come  to  court  this  may, 
A'  mounted  in  good  order. 


See  Appendix. 


214 


•Ratbarine  5antarfe 


He  told  na  her  father,  he  told  na  her  mother, 
And  he  told  na  ane  o'  her  kin  ; 

But  he  whisper 'd  the  bonnie  lassie  hersell. 
And  has  her  favour  won. 

But  out  then  came  Lord  I^ochinvar, 

Out  frae  the  English  Border, 
All  for  to  court  this  bonny  may, 

Weel  mounted,  and  in  order. 

He  told  her  father,  he  told  her  mother, 

And  a'  the  lave  o'  her  kin ; 
But  he  told  na  the  bonny  maj^  hersell, 

Till  on  her  wedding  e'en. 

She  sent  to  the  I^ord  o'  I^auderdale, 

Gin  he  wad  come  and  see ; 
And  he  has  sent  word  back  again, 

"Weel  answer'd  she  suld  be. 

And  he  has  sent  a  messenger 
'^^         Right  quickly  through  the  land, 
^-^      And  raised  mony  an  armed  man 

To  be  at  his  command. 
# 
The  bride  looked  out  at  a  high  window. 
Beheld  baith  dale  and  down, 
i.      And  she  was  aware  of  her  first  true  love, 
^         With  riders  mony  a  one. 

She  scoffed  him,  and  scorned  him, 

UpHDn  her  wedding  day ; 
And  said—"  It  was  the  Fairy  court 

To  see  him  in  array  ! 

"  O  come  ye  here  to  fight,  young  lord, 

Or  come  ye  here  to  play  ? 
Or  come  ye  here  to  drink  good  wine 

Upon  the  wedding  day  ?  " — 


IRatbarine  ^anfarie 


215 


"  I  come  na  here  to  fight,"  he  said, 

"  I  come  na  here  to  play ; 
I  '11  but  lead  a  dance  wi'  the  bonnie  bride. 

And  mount,  and  go  my  way." 

It  is  a  glass  of  the  blood-red  wine 

Was  filled  up  them  between, 
And  aye  she  drank  to  I^auderdale, 

Wha  her  true  love  had  been. 

He  's  ta'en  her  by  the  milk-white  hand. 
And  by  the  grass-green  sleeve  ; 

He  's  mounted  her  hie  behind  himsell, 
At  her  kinsmen  speir'd  na  leave.*    ' 

"  Now  take  your  bride,  lyord  I^ochinvar ! 

Now  take  her  if  you  may  ! 
But,  if  you  take  your  bride  again, 

We  '11  call  it  but  foul  play." 

There  were  four-and-twenty  bonnie  boys, 

A'  clad  in  Johnstone  grey ; 
They  said  they  would  take  the  bride  again. 

By  the  strong  hand,  if  they  may. 

Some  o'  them  were  right  willing  men, 

But  they  were  na  willing  a' ; 
And  four-and-twenty  I^eader  lads 

Bid  them  mount  and  ride  awa'. 

Then  whingers  flew  frae  gentles'  sides. 
And  swords  flew  frae  the  shea's, 

And  red  and  rosy  was  the  blood 
Ran  down  the  lily  braes. 


["  One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in  her  ear, 
When  they  reach'd  the  hall  door,  and  the  charger  stood  near; 
So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he  swung. 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung  ! 
•  She  is  won  I  we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush,  and  scaur  ; 
They  '11  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow,'  quoth  young  Lochinvar." 

Marfnton.'\ 


2l6 


l^atbarine  5anfarie 


The  blood  ran  down  by  Caddon  bank, 

And  down  by  Caddon  brae  ; 
And,  sighing,  said  the  bonny  bride — 

"  O  wae  's  me  for  foul  play  ! ' ' 

My  blessing  on  j'our  heart,  sweet  thing  ! 

Wae  to  your  wilfu'  wiU  ! 
There  's  mony  a  gallant  gentleman 

Whae's  bluid  j-e  have  garr'd  to  spill. 

Now  a'  you  lords  of  fair  England, 
And  that  dwell  by  the  English  Border, 

Come  never  here  to  seek  a  wife, 
For  fear  of  sic  disorder. 

They  '11  haik  ye  up,  and  settle  ye  bye. 

Till  on  your  wedding  day  ; 
Then  gie  ye  frogs  instead  offish, 

And  play  ye  foul,  foul  play. 


•RuDiser 


217 


*  See  Appendix, 


RUDIGER.* 

Bright  on  the  mountain's  healthy  slope 
The  day's  last  splendours  shine, 

And,  rich  with  many  a  radiant  hue, 
Gleam  gaily  on  the  Rhine. 


2l8 


•RuDiger 


And  many  a  one  from  Waldhurst's  walls 

Along  the  river  stroll'd, 
As  ruffling  o'er  the  pleasant  stream 

The  ev'ning  gales  came  cold. 

So  as  they  stray'd  a  swan  they  saw 

Sail  stately  up  and  strong, 
And  by  a  silver  chain  he  drew 

A  little  boat  along, — 

Whose  streamer  to  the  gentle  breeze 

I,ong  floating  flutter'd  light, 
Beneath  whose  crimson  canopy 

There  lay  reclin'd  a  knight. 

With  arching  crest  and  swelling  breast 

On  sail'd  the  stately  swan, 
And  lightly  up  the  parting  tide 

The  little  boat  came  on. 

And  onward  to  the  shore  they  drew, 
Where  having  left  the  knight, 

The  little  boat  adown  the  stream 
Fell  soon  beyond  the  sight. 

W^as  never  a  knight  in  Waldhurst's  walls 
Could  with  this  stranger  vie  ; 

Was  never  a  youth  at  aught  esteem'd 
When  Rudiger  was  by. 

Was  never  a  maid  in  Waldhurst's  walls 
Might  match  with  Margaret ; 

Her  cheek  was  fair,  her  eyes  were  dark. 
Her  silken  locks  like  jet. 

And  many  a  rich  and  noble  youth 

Had  strove  to  win  the  fair  ; 
But  never  a  rich  and  noble  youth 

Could  rival  Rudiger. 


IRu&iQer 


219 


At  every  tilt  and  tourney  he 

Still  bore  away  the  prize ; 
For  knightly  feats  superior  still, 

And  knightly  courtesies. 

His  gallant  feats,  his  looks,  his  love, 

Soon  won  the  willing  fair  ; 
And  soon  did  Margaret  become 

The  wife  of  Rudiger. 

lyike  morning  dreams  of  happiness 
Fast  roll'd  the  months  away ; 

For  he  was  kind  and  she  was  kind. 
And  who  so  blest  as  they  ? 

Yet  Rudiger  would  sometimes  sit 

Absorb'd  in  silent  thought, 
And  his  dark  downward  eye  would  seem 

With  anxious  meaning  fraught : 

But  soon  he  rais'd  his  looks  again, 

And  smil'd  his  cares  away, 
And  mid  the  hall  of  gaiety 

•Was  none  like  him  so  gay. 

And  onward  roll'd  the  waning  months — 

The  hour  appointed  came. 
And  Margaret  her  Rudiger 

Hail'd  with  a  father's  name. 

But  silently  did  Rudiger 

The  little  infant  see  ; 
And  darkly  on  the  babe  he  gaz'd, — 

A  gloomy  man  was  he. 

And  when  to  bless  the  little  babe 

The  holy  Father  came, 
To  cleanse  the  stains  of  sin  away 

In  Christ's  redeeming  name, 


•RuDigcr 


Then  did  the  cheek  of  Rudiger 

Assume  a  death-pale  hue, 
And  on  his  clammy  forehead  stood 

The  cold  convulsive  dew  ; 

And  falt'ring  in  his  speech  he  bade 

The  Priest  the  rites  delay, 
Till  he  could,  to  right  health  restor'd, 

Enjoy  the  festive  day. 

When  o'er  the  many-tinted  sky 

He  saw  the  day  decline, 
He  called  upon  his  Margaret 

To  walk  beside  the  Rhine  ; 

•'  And  we  will  take  the  little  babe, 
For  soft  the  breeze  that  blows. 

And  the  mild  murmurs  of  the  stream 
Will  lull  him  to  repose."  * 

And  so  together  forth  they  went ; 

The  ev'ning  breeze  was  mild, 
And  Rudiger  upon  his  arm 

Pillow'd  the  little  child. 


»  "  Now  who  can  judge  this  to  be  other  than  one  of 
those  spirits  that  are  named  Incubi?"  says  Thomas 
Heywood,  in  his  "Notes  to  the  Hierarchies  of  the 
BlessedAngels,"apoem  printed  by  Adam  Islipin  1635. 
"I  have  adopted  his  story,"  writes  Southey,  "but  not 
his  solution,  making  the  unknown  soldier  not  an  evil 
spirit,  but  one  who  had  purchjised  happiness  of  a  malev- 
olent being,  by  the  promised  sacrifice  of  his  first-born 
child."  Southey  has  borrowed  themes  of  other  balla'ls 
from  this  quaint  old  writer;  one  in  particular,  "  Donica," 
who  moved  about  the  world  many  years  after  she  was 
dead,  eating  and  drinking,  "although  very  sparingly," 
and  indicating  the  absence  of  the  soul  only  by  "  a  deep 
paleness  on  her  countenance."  At  length  a  magician 
coming  by  where  she  was,  in  the  comjjany  of  other 
virgins,  as  soon  as  he  beheld  her  he  said,  "  Fair  maids, 
why  keep  you  company  with  this  dead  virgin,  whom 
you  suppose  to  be  alive  ?  "  when  taking  away  the  magic 
charm  which  was  hid  under  her  arm,  the  body  fell  down 
lifeless  and  without  motion. 


IRu&tQcr 


221 


And  many  a  one  from  Waldhurst's  walls 

Along  the  banks  did  roam  ; 
But  soon  the  evening  wind  came  cold, 

And  all  betook  them  home. 

Yet  Rudiger  in  silent  mood 
Along  the  banks  would  roam, 

Nor  aught  could  Margaret  prevail 
To  turn  his  footsteps  home. 

' '  Oh  turn  thee,  turn  thee,  Rudiger  ! 

The  rising  mists  behold, 
The  ev'ning  wind  is  damp  and  chill, 

The  little  babe  is  cold  ! ' 

"  Now  hush  thee,  hush  thee,  Margaret, 

The  mists  will  do  no  harm, 
And  from  the  wind  the  little  babe 

Ivies  shelter 'd  on  my  arm." 

"  Oh  turn  thee,  turn  thee,  Rudiger  ! 

Why  onward  wilt  thou  roam  ? 
The  moon  is  up,  the  night  is  cold, 

And  we  are  far  from  home." 

He  answer'd  not,  for  now  he  saw 

A  swan  come  sailing  strong, 
And  by  a  silver  chain  he  drew 

A  little  boat  along. 

To  shore  they  came,  and  to  the  boat 

Fast  leapt  he  with  the  child, 
And  in  leapt  Margaret— breathless  now. 

And  pale  with  fear  and  wild. 

With  arching  crest  and  swelling  breast 

On  sail'd  the  stately  swan. 
And  lightly  down  the  rapid  tide 

The  little  boat  went  on. 


222 


•RuDiacr 


i^^g^ 


The  full-orb 'd  moon,  that  beam'd  around 
Pale  splendour  through  the  night, 

Cast  through  the  crimson  canopy 
A  dim  discolour'd  light ; 

And  swiftly  down  the  hurrying  stream 

In  silence  still  they  sail, 
And  the  long  streamer  flutt'ring  fast 

Flapp'd  to  the  heavy  gale. 

And  he  was  mute  in  sullen  thought, 
And  she  was  mute  with  fear  ; 

Nor  sound  but  of  the  parting  tide 
Broke  on  the  list'ning  ear. 

The  little  babe  began  to  crj-, 
Then  Marg'ret  rais'd  her  head. 

And  with  a  quick  and  hollow  voice 
"  Give  me  the  child  !  "  she  said. 

"  Now  hush  thee,  hush  thee,  Margaret, 

Nor  my  poor  heart  distress  ! 
I  do  but  pay  perforce  the  price 

Of  former  happiness. 

"  And  hush  thee,  too,  my  little  babe ! 

Thy  cries  so  feeble  cease  : 
t,ie  still,  lie  still ;— a  little  while 

And  thou  shalt  be  at  peace." 

So  as  he  spake  to  land  they  drew, 

And  swift  he  stept  on  shore. 
And  him  behind  did  Margaret 

Close  follow  evermore. 

It  was  a  place  all  desolate. 
Nor  house  nor  tree  was  there  ; 

And  there  a  rocky  mountain  rose, 
Barren,  and  bleak,  and  bare. 


IRuDiger 


223 


And  at  its  base  a  cavern  yawn'd, 

No  eye  its  depth  might  view, 
For  in  the  moonbeam  shining  round 

That  darkness  darker  g^rew. 
Cold  horror  crept  through  Margaret's  t^od, 

Her  heart  it  paus'd  with  fear, 
When  Rudiger  approach'd  the  cave, 

And  cried,  "  1,0,  I  am  here  ! " 
A  deep  sepulchral  sound  the  cave 

Retum'd,  "  IvO,  I  am  here  ! " 
And  black  from  out  the  cavern  gloom 

Two  giant  arms  appear. 
And  Rudiger  approach'd,  and  held 

The  little  infant  nigh  : 
Then  Margaret  shriek'd,  and  gather'd  then 

New  pow'rs  from  agony. 
And  round  the  baby  fast  and  close 

Her  trembling  arms  she  folds. 
And  with  a  strong  convulsive  grasp 

The  little  infant  holds.* 

*  Several  of  the  translated  ballads  of  Jamieson,  Lewis, 
and  others,  record  incidents  of  a  similar  character. 
When  Southey  borrowed  the  story,  it  was  comparatively 
new  to  the  English  reader.    It  would  be  easy  to  quote 


many  illustrative  examples.  Jamieson  publishes  one— 
from  the  Danish— entitled  "  The  Merman  and  Marstig's 
Daughter,"  in  which  occurs  the  following  stanza,— the 


H^ 


wedlock  being  followed  by  the  drowning  of  the  fair 
May: 

"  The  priest  before  the  altar  stood  ; 

'  O  what  for  a  good  naight  may  this  be  ?  ' 
The  May  leugh  till  herself,  and  said, 

'  God  gif  that  gude  knight  were  for  me  !  '  " 


A  translation,  apparently  of  the  same  ballad,  has  been 
made  by  Mr.  Charles  Mackay  ;  it  is  entitled  "  The  Wild 
Water-man,  or  the  Fate  of  the  Vain  Maiden  "  ;  the  fol- 
lowing is  the  "moral  ": 

"  I  warn  you  maidens,  whoever  you  be. 
Beware,  beware  of  vanity  ; 
Maidens,  I  warn  you  all  I  can, 
Beware  of  the  wild,  wild  water-man." 


224 


'Kudidct 


"  Now  help  me,  Jesus  ! "  loud  she  cries, 

And  loud  on  God  she  calls ; 
Then  from  the  grasp  of  Rudiger 

The  little  infant  falls. 

And  loud  he  shriek'd,  for  now  his  ftame. 
The  huge  black  arms  clasp 'd  round, 

And  dragg'd  the  wretched  Rudiger 
Adown  the  dark  profound. 


Zhc  iBvc  of  St.  5obn 


225 


th:E  :Evb  of  st.  john.* 

The  Baron  of  Smaylho'me  rose  with  day, 

He  spurr'd  his  courser  on, 
Without  stop  or  stay,  down  the  rocky  way, 

That  leads  to  Brotherstone. 

He  went  not  with  the  bold  Buccleuch, 

His  banr^er  broad  to  rear ; 
He  went  not  'gainst  the  E;nglish  yew, 

To  lift  the  Scottish  spear. 


•  See  Appendix. 


226 


XL\)C  JBvc  of  St.  5obn 


Yet  his  plate-jack  was  brac'd,  his  helmet  was 
lac'd, 

And  his  vaunt-brace  of  proof  he  wore  ; 
At  his  saddle-gerthe  was  a  good  steel  sperthe, 

Full  ten  pound  weight  and  more. 
The  baron  return'd  in  three  days'  space, 

And  his  looks  were  sad  and  sour ; 
And  weary  was  his  courser's  pace, 

As  he  reach 'd  his  rocky  tower. 

He  came  not  from  where  Ancram  Moor 

Ran  red  with  English  blood  ;  [cleuch, 

^\'here  the  Douglas  true,  and  the  bold  Buc- 

' Gainst  keen  I^rd  Evers  stood. 
Yet  was  his  helmet  hack'd  and  hew'd. 

His  acton  pierced  and  tore. 
His  axe  and  his  dagger  with  blood  imbrued, — 

But  it  was  not  English  gore. 

V;^  He  lighted  at  the  Chapellage, 
' '       He  held  him  close  and  still ; 

And  he  whistled  thrice  for  his  little  foot-page, 
His  name  was  English  Will. 

"  Come  thou  hither,  my  little  foot-page, 

Come  hither  to  my  knee  ; 
Though  thou  art  young,  and  tender  of  age, 

I  think  thou  art  true  to  me. 

"  Come,  tell  me  all  that  thou  has  seen, 

And  look  thou  tell  me  true ! 
Since  I  from  Smaylho'me  tower  have  been. 

What  did  thy  lady  do  ?  '— 

"  My  lady,  each  night,  sought  the  lonely  light, 
That  burns  on  the  wild  Watchfold  ; 

For,  from  height  to  height,  the  beacons  bright 
Of  the  English  foemen  told. 


trbe  iBvc  of  St.  5obn 


227 


"  The  bittern  clamour'd  from  the  moss, 

The  wind  blew  loud  and  shrill ; 
Yet  the  craggy  pathway  she  did  cross, 

To  the  eiry  Beacon  Hill. 

"  I  watch 'd  her  steps,  and  silent  came 

Where  she  sat  her  on  a  stone  ; — 
No  watchman  stood  by  the  dreary  flame 

It  burned  all  alone. 

"  The  second  night  I  kept  her  in  sight, 

Till  to  the  fire  she  came, 
And,  by  Mary's  might !  an  armed  knight 

Stood  by  the  lonely  flame. 

And  many  a  word  that  warlike  lord 
Did  speak  to  my  lady  there  ; 
Hut  the  rain  fell  fast,  and  loud  blew  the  blast. 
And  I  heard  not  what  they  were. 

"  The  third  night  there  the  sky  was  fair. 
And  the  mountain  blast  was  still, 

As  again  I  watch 'd  the  secret  pair, 
On  the  lonesome  Beacon  Hill. 

"  And  I  heard  her  name  the  midnight  hour. 

And  name  this  holy  eve  ; 
\nd  say  :  *  Come  this  night  to  thy  lady's  bower ; 

Ask  no  bold  baron's  leave. 

"  '  He  lifts  his  spear  with  the  bold  Buccleuch  ; 

His  lady  is  all  alone  ; 
The  door  she  '11  undo  to  her  knight  so  true, 

On  the  eve  of  good  St.  John.'— 

"  '  I  cannot  come  ;  I  must  not  come  ; 

I  dare  not  come  to  thee  ; 
On  the  eve  of  St.  John  I  must  wander  alone ; 

In  thy  bower  I  may  not  be.'— 


228 


tTbe  JEvc  of  St.  5obn 


'* '  Now,  out  on  thee,  faint-liearted  knight  I 

Thou  shouldst  not  say  me  nay ; 
For  the  eve  is  sweet,  and,  when  lovers  meet, 
.    Is  worth  the  whole  summer's  day. 

"  '  And  I  '11  chain  the  blood-hound. 
And  the  warder  shall  not  sound. 

And  rushes  shall  be  strew'd  on  the  stair ; 
So,  by  the  black  rood-stone,  and  by  holy  St. 
John, 

I  conjure  thee,  my  love,  to  be  there  ! ' — 

ITiough  the  blood-hound  may  be  mute, 
And  the  rush  beneath  my  foot, 

And  the  warder  his  bugle  should  not  blow. 
There  sleepeth  a  priest  in  the  chamber  to  the 

And  my  footstep  he  would  know. '—      [east, 

" '  O  fear  not  the  priest,  who  sleepeth  to  the 
FortoDrj-burghthewayhehasta'en ;  [east! 

And  there  to  say  mass,  till  three  days  do  pass. 
For  the  soul  of  a  knight  that  is  slayne.' — 

'He   tum'd  him   around,    and   grimly   he 

Then  he  laugh'd  right  scornfully —  [frown'd 

■  He  who  says  mass-rite  for  the  soul  of  that 

May  as  well  say  mass  for  me  :  [knight, 

"  'At  the  midnight  hour, 
When  bad  spirits  have  power, 

In  thy  chamber  will  I  be.' — 
With  that  he  was  gone,  and  my  lady  left  alone. 

And  no  more  did  I  see. ' ' 

Then  changed,  I  trow,  was  that  bold  Baron's 
From  the  dark  to  theblood-red  high—  [brow, 

"  Now,  tell  me  the  mien  of  the  knight  thou 
hast  seen. 
For,  by  Mary,  he  shall  die  !  "  — 


Zhc  iBvc  of  St  5obn 


229 


"  His  arms  shone  bright,  in  the  beacon's  red 
His  plume  it  was  scarlet  and  blue  ;    [light ! 

On  his  shield  was  a  hound, 

In  a  silver  leash  bound, 
And  his  crest  was  a  branch  of  the  yew." — 

"Thou  liest,  thou  liest,  thou  little  foot-page, 

IvOud  dost  thou  lie  to  me  ! 
For  that  knight  is  cold, 
And  low  laid  in  the  mould, 

All  under  the  iEildon-tree." — 
"Yet  hear  but  my  word,  my  noble  lord  ! 

For  I  heard  her  name  his  name  ; 
And  that  lady  bright  she  called  the  knight 
Sir  Richard  of  Coldinghame."— 
^  The  bold  Baron's  brow  then  changed,  I  trow, 
•s     From  high  blood-red  to  pale — 
Z  "  The  grave  is  deep  and  dark — 
4  And  the  corpse  is  stiff  and  stark — 
ili     So  I  may  not  trust  thy  tale. 

"Where  fair  Tweed  flows  round  holy  Melrose, 

And  Eildon  slopes  to  the  plain. 
Full  three  nights  ago,  by  some  secret  foe, 

That  gay  gallant  was  slain. 

"  The  varying  light  deceived  thy  sight, 

And  the  wild  winds  drown 'd  the  name  ; 
For  the  Dryburgh  bells  ring. 
And  the  white  monks  do  sing. 

For  Sir  Richard  of  Coldinghame  !  " 
He  pass'd  the  court-gate, 
And  he  oped  the  tower-gate, 

And  he  mounted  the  narrow  stair. 
To  the  bartizan  seat. 
Where,  with  maids  that  on  her  wait, 

He  found  his  lady  fair. 


'\7\  B  H  A  ^  y^ 

OF  THK 


230 


^bc  Bve  ot  St.  5obn 


-^ 


That  lady  sat  in  mournful  mood  • 

Ivook'd  over  hill  and  vale  ; 
Over  Tweed's  fair  flood,  and  Mertoun's  wood, 

And  all  down  Teviotdale. 
"  Now  hail,  now  hail,  thou  lady  bright !  " — 

"  Now  hail,  thou  Baron  true  ! 
What  news,  what  news,  from  Ancrara  fight? 

What  news  from  the  bold  Buccleuch  ?  " — 
"  The  Ancram  Moor  is  red  with  gore, 

For  many  a  southern  fell ; 
And  Buccleuch  has  charged  us,  evermore, 

To  watch  our  beacons  well." — 
rhe  lady  blush 'd  red,  but  nothing  she  said  : 

Nor  added  the  Baron  a  word  :  [ber  fair, 

Then  she  stepp'd  down  the  stair  to  her  cham- 
I.      And  so  did  her  moody  lord. 
I  In  sleep  the  lady  moum'd, 
J';  And  the  Baron  toss'd  and  tum'd, 
j      And  oft  to  himself  he  said, — 
i  "  The  worms  around  him  creep, 
And  his  bloody  grave  is  deep    .     .    . 
It  cannot  give  up  the  dead  ! ' ' — 

It  was  near  the  ringing  of  matin-bell, 

The  night  was  well  nigh  done. 
When  a  heavy  sleep  on  that  Baron  fell, 

On  the  eve  of  good  St.  John. 
The  lady  look'd  through  the  chamber  fair, 

By  the  light  of  a  dying  flame  ; 
And  she  was  aware  of  a  knight  stood  there — 

Sir  Richard  of  Coldinghame  ! 
"  Alas  !  away,  away  !  "  she  cried, 

"  For  the  holy  Virgin's  sake  !  " — 
"  I/ady,  I  know  who  sleeps  by  thy  side  ; 

Put,  lady,  he  will  not  awake. 


Zbc  Bx>e  of  St  5obn 


231 


"  By  Eildon-tree,  for  long  nights  three, 
In  bloody  grave  have  I  lain  ;  [me, 

The  mass  and  the  death-prayer  are  said  for 
But,  lady,  they  are  said  in  vain. 


"By  the  Baron's  brand,  near  Tweed's  fair 
Most  foully  slain,  I  fell ;  [strand, 

And  my  restless  sprite  on  the  beacon's 
For  a  space  is  doomed  to  dwell,    [height, 

"  At  our  trysting-place,  for  a  certain  space, 
I  must  wander  to  and  fro  ;  [bower, 

But  I  had  not  had  power  to  come  to  thy 
Hadst  thou  not  conjured  me  so." — 

L,ove  master'd  fear — ^her  brow  she  cross'd  ; 

"  How,  Richard,  hast  thou  sped  ? 
And  art  thou  saved,  or  art  thou  lost?" — 

The  vision  shook  his  head  ! 

"  Who  spilleth  life  shall  forfeit  life  ; 

So  bid  thy  lord  believe  : 
That  lawless  love  is  guilt  above. 

This  awful  sign  receive." 

He  laid  his  left  palm  on  an  oaken  beam. 

His  right  upon  her  hand  ; 
The  lady  shrunk,  and  fainting  sunk, 

For  it  scorch 'd  like  a  fiery  brand. 

The  sable  score  of  fingers  four 
Remains  on  that  board  impress 'd  ; 

And  for  evermore  that  lady  wore 
A  covering  on  her  wrist.* 

*  The  circumstance  of  the  ' '  nun  who  never  saw  the  day  "  is  not  entirely  imaginary. 
Neither  is  the  incident  of  the  lady  wearing-  a  covering  on  the  wrist  to  conceal  the 
"sable  score  of  fingers  four."  Sir  Walter  says  it  is  "founded  on  an  Irish  tradition." 
The  circumstance  referred  to  is  not  of  a  remote  date.  We  have  ourselves  seen  the 
bracelet  said  to  have  been  thus  used — ^nd  worn  until  death  betrayed  the  secret  of  the 
nearer, 


232 


Ubc  jevc  ot  St.  5obn 


3Bartbram*0  Dirge 


233 


They  shot  him  (lend  nt  the  Nine  Stone  Rig, 

Beside  the  Ilcidleso  Cross 
And  tlicy  left  hiin  l>in^  in  his  bhxj  1, 

Upon  the  moor  and  moss. 

They  made  a  bier  of  the  broken  bough, 
The  sauch  and  the  aspin  gray. 

And  they  bore  him  to  the  Lady  Chapel, 
And  waked  him  there  all  day. 

A  lady  came  to  that  lonely  bower. 

And  threw  her  robes  aside  ; 
She  tore  her  ling  long  yellow  hair, 
ji\^  •>    And  knelt  at  Barthram's  sid^. 


*  See  Appendi3(. 


=34 


:JSartbram*s  Dfrae 


She  bathed  him  in  the  Lady-Well. 

H  is  wounds  so  deep  and  sair  ; 
Anil  she  plaited  a  jrarland  for  his  breast. 

And  a  garland  for  bis  bair. 

They  rowed  him  in  a  lily-sheet 

And  bare  him  to  his  earth  ; 
And  the  Gray  Friars  sung  the  dead  man's 

As  they  passd  the  Chapel  Garth. 

They  buried  him  at  the  mirk  midnigt, 
W  hen  the  dew  fell  cold  and  still. 


They  dug  his  grave  but  a  bare  foot  deep. 
By  the  edge  of  the  Nine-Stone  Bum, 

An<l  they  covered  him  o'er  with  the  heather-flower. 
The  moss  and  the  lady  fern. 

A  Gray  Friar  staid  upon  the  grave. 

And  sang  till  the  morning  tide  ; 
And  a  fi-iar  shall  sing  for  Barthram's  soul, 

■While  the  Headless  Cross  shall  bide. 


Sic  Cauline 


235 


In  Ireland  ferr  over  the  s<»-i, 
There  dwelleth  1  honn>e  kiiitje  ; 

And  with  him  a  younjj  and  conilye  knighte, 
Men  call  him  bwr  Cauiine. 


?®>  The  kinge  had  a  ladye  to  his  daughter, 
/      In  fashyon  she  hath  no  peere  ; 
;■   And  princely  wig'htes  that  ladye  wooed 
To  be  theyr  wedded  feere. 


*  See  Appendix. 


236 


Sir  CauUnc 


£mi*^^ 


Sir  Cauline  loveth  her  best  of  all, 

But  nothing  durst  he  saye  ; 
Ne  descreeve  his  counsayl  to  no  man, 

But  deerlye  he  lovde  this  may. 
Till  on  a  daye  it  so  beffell. 

Great  dill  to  him  was  dight ; 
The  maydens  love  removde  his  mynd, 

To  care-bed  went  the  knighte, 
One  while  he  spred  his  armes  him  fro, 

One  while  he  spred  them  nye  : 
And  aye,  "  But  I  winne  that  ladye's  love 

For  dole  now  I  mun  dye." 
And  whan  our  parish-masse  was  done, 

Our  kinge  was  bowne  to  dyne  : 
He  saves,  "  Where  is  Sir  Cauline, 

That  is  wont  to  serve  the  wy-ne  ?  " 

Then     aunswerde     him     a     courteous 
knighte. 

And  fast  his  handes  gan  wringe  : 
"  Sir  Cauline  is  sicke,  and  like  to  dye 

Without  a  good  leechinge." 
"  Fetche  me  downe  my  daughter  deere, 

She  is  a  leeche  fulle  fine  :  [bread, 

Goe  take  him  doughe,  and  the  baken 
And  ser\-e  him  with  the  wyne  soe  red  ; 

Lothe  I  were  him  to  tine." 
Fair  Christabelle  to  his  chaumber  goes. 

Her  maydens  foUowyng  nj^e  :    [lord  ?  ' ' 
"O  well,"'  she  sayth,   "how  doth  my 

"  O  sicke,  thou  fayr  ladye." 
"  Noweryse  up  wightlye,  man  for  shame. 

Never  lye  soe  cowardice  ; 
For  it  is  told  in  my  father's  halle, 

You  dve  for  love  of  mee," 


Sir  Cauline 


237 


"  Fayre  ladye,  it  is  for  your  love 

That  all  this  dill  I  drye  : 
For  if  you  wold  comfort  me  with  a  kisse. 
Then  were  I  brought  from  bale  to  blisse, 

No  lenger  wold  I  lye. ' ' 

"  Sir  knighte,  my  father  is  a  kinga, 

I  am  his  only  heire  ; 
Alas  !  and  well  you  knowe,  syr  knighte, 

I  never  can  be  youre  fere." 

"  O  ladye,  thou  art  a  kinges  daughter, 

And  I  am  not  thy  peere  ; 
But  let  me  doe  some  deedes  of  armes 

To  be  your  bacheleere." 

'  Some  deedes  of  arms  if  thou  wilt  doe. 

My  bacheleere  to  bee, 
But  ever  and  aye  my  heart  wold  rue 
Giflf  harm  shold  happe  to  thee. 

"  Upon    FJldridge    hill  there    groweth    a 

Upon  the  mores  brodinge  ;  [thorne 

'  And  dare  ye,  syr  knighte,  wake  there  all 

Untill  the  fayre  morninge  ?  [nighte, 

"  For  the  F)ldridge  knighte,  so  mickle  of 

Will  examine  you  beforne  ;         [mighte, 
And  never  man  bare  life  awaye. 

But  he  did  him  scath  and  scorne. 
"  That  knighte  he  is  a  fond  paynim, 

And  large  of  limb  and  bone  ; 
And  but  if  heaven  may  be  thy  speede. 

Thy  life  it  is  but  gone." 
"  Nowe  on  the  Flldridge  hilles  He  walke, 

For  thy  sake,  faire  ladye  ; 
And  He  either  bring  you  a  ready  token, 

Or  He  never  more  you  see." 


238 


Sir  CauUne 


The  lady  is  gone  to  her  own  chambere, 

Her  maydens  following-  bright : 
Sir  Cauline  lope  from  care-bed  soone, 
And  to  the  Eldridge  hills  is  gone, 
For  to  wake  there  all  night. 

Unto  midnight,  that  the  moone  did  rise 
He  walked  up  and  downe  : 

Then  a  lightsome  bugle  heard  he  blowe, 
■::>,^    Over  the  bents  soe  browne  ; 
0  Quoth  hee,  "  If  cryance  come  till  my  heart, 
^      I  am  far  from  any  good  towne." 

And  soone  he  spyde  on  the  mores  so  broad, 

A  furyous  wight  and  fell ; 
A  ladye  bright  his  brj'dle  led. 

Clad  in  a  fayre  kyrtell ; 

And  soe  fast  he  called  on  Sir  Cauline, 

"  O  man,  I  rede  thee  flj'e. 
For  '  but '  if  crj'ance  comes  till  my  heart, 

I  weene  but  thou  mun  dye. ' ' 

He  saj-th,  "  No  cryance  comes  till  my  heart, 
Nor  in  fayth,  I  wj-ll  not  flee  ; 
''  For,  cause  thou  minged  not  Christ  before. 
The  less  me  dreaded  thee." 

The  Eldridge  knighte  he  pricked  his  steed  ; 

Sir  Cauline  bold  abode  : 
Then  either  shooke  his  trustj'  speare. 
And  the  timber  these  two  children  bare 

Soe  soone  in  sunder  slode. 


Then  tooke  they  out  theyr  two  good  swordes, 

And  laj^den  on  full  faste, 
Till  helme  and  hawberke,  mail  and  sheelde, 

They  all  were  well-nye  brast. 


Bit  Cauline 


239 


The  EJldridge  knight  was  mickle  of  might, 

And  stifFe  in  stower  did  stande, 
But  Sir  Cauline  with  a  backward  stroke, 

He  smote  off  his  right  hand  ; 
That  soone  he  with  paine  and  lacke  of  bloud 

Fell  downe  on  that  lay-land. 
Then  up  Sir  Cauline  lift  his  brande 

All  over  his  head  so  hye  : 
"  And  here  I  sweare  by  the  holy  roode 

Nowe,  caytiffe,  thou  shalt  dye." 
Then  up  and  came  that  ladye  brighte 

Fast  wringing  of  her  hande  : 
"For  the  mayden's  love,  that  most  you  love, 

Withhold  that  deadly  brande  : 

'  *  For  the  mayden's  love,  that  most  you  love, 

Now  smyte  no  more  I  praye  ; 
And  aye  whatever  thou  wilt,  my  lord. 

He  shall  thy  hests  obaye." 
'  Now  sweare  tomee,  thou  Fldridgeknighte, 

And  here  on  this  lay-land, 
That  thou  wilt  believe  on  Christ  his  laye. 

And  thereto  plight  thy  hand  : 
■ '  And  that  thou  never  on  Eldridge  come 

To  sporte,  gamon,  or  playe. 
And  that  thou  here  give  up  thy  armes 

Until  thy  dying  daye." 
The  Fldridge  knighte  gave  up  his  armes 

With  many  a  sorrowfulle  sighe  ; 
And  sware  to  obey  Sir  Cauline's  hest, 

Till  the  tyme  that  he  shold  dye. 
And  he  then  up,  and  the  Fldridge  knighte 

Sett  him  in  his  saddle  anone, 
And  the  Kldridge  knighte  and  his  ladye 

To  theyr  castle  are  they  gone. 


240 


Sir  Cauline 


Then  he  tooke  up  the  bloudy  hand, 

That  -was  so  large  of  bone, 
And  on  it  he  founde  five  rings  of  gold 

Of  knightes  that  had  he  slone. 

Then  he  tooke  up  the  Eldridge  sworde, 

As  hard  as  any  flint ; 
And  he  tooke  off  those  ringes  five, 

As  bright  as  fyre  and  brent. 

Home  then  pricked  Sir  Cauline 

As  light  as  leafe  on  tree  ; 
I-wys  he  neither  stint  ne  blanne, 

Till  he  his  ladye  see. 

Then  downe  he  knelt  upon  his  knee 

Before  that  ladye  gay  ; 
"  O  ladye,  I  have  bin  on  the  Eldridge  hills ; 

These  tokens  I  bring  away." 

'  No-w  welcome,  welcome,  Sir  Cauline, 

Thrice  welcome  unto  mee  ; 
For  now  I  perceive  thou  art  a  true  knighte, 
Of  valour  bolde  and  free." 

"  O  ladye,  I  am  thy  own  true  knighte, 
(^|--^    Tliy  hests  for  to  obaye  ; 

i¥^  And  mought  I  hope  to  winne  thj'  love  ! " 
Ne  more  his  tonge  colde  say. 

The  lady  blushed  scarlette  redde, 

And  fette  a  gentill  sighe  : 
"  Alas  !  sir  knighte,  how  may  this  bee, 

For  my  degree's  soe  highe  ? 

"  But  sith  thou  hast  hight,  thou  comely 
To  be  my  bacheleere,  [youth, 

lie  promise  if  thee  I  may  not  wedde, 
I  will  have  none  other  fere." 


Sir  CauHne 


241 


Then  shee  held  forthe  her  lilly-white  hand 

Towards  that  knighte  so  free  ; 
He  gave  to  it  one  gentill  kisse, — 
His  heart  was  brought  from  bale  to  blisse, 

The  teares  sterte  from  his  ee. 


"But  keep  my  counsayl,  Sir  Cauline, 

Ne  let  no  man  it  knowe  ; 
For  and  ever  my  father  sholde  it  ken, 

I  wot  he  wolde  us  sloe." 

From  that  day  forthe  that  ladye  fayre 
I/Ovde  Sir  Cauline,  the  knighte  : 

From  that  day  forthe  he  only  joyde 
Whan  shee  was  in  his  sight. 

Yea,  and  oftentimes  they  mette 

Within  a  fayre  arboure, 
Where  they  in  love  and  sweet  daliaunce 

Past  manye  a  pleasaunt  houre. 

PART   THE   SECOND. 

I  :^verye  white  will  have  its  blacke, 
And  everye  sweete  its  sowre  : 
This  founde  the  I^adye  Christabelle 
In  an  untimely  howre. 

Far  so  it  befelle,  as  Sir  Cauline 

Was  with  that  ladye  faire. 
The  kinge,  her  father,  walked  forthe 

To  take  the  evenyng  aire  : 


And  into  the  arboure  as  he  went 

To  rest  his  weary e  feet, 
He  found  his  daughter  and  Sir  Cauline 

There  sette  in  daliaunce  sweet. 


24- 


Sit  Cauline 


The  kinge  hee  sterted  forthe,  i-wys, 

And  an  angrye  man  was  hee  : 
"  iSTowe,   traytoure,   thou    shalt    hange    or 
drawe, 

And  rewe  shall  thy  ladye." 

Then  forthe  Sir  Cauline  he  was  ledde, 
And  throwne  in  dungeon  deepe  ; 

And  the  ladye  into  a  towre  so  hye, 
There  left  to  wayle  and  weepe. 

The  queene  she  was  Sir  Cauline's  fi-iend, 

And  to  the  kinge  sayd  shee  : 
"  I  praye  you  save  Sir  Cauline's  life, 

And  let  him  banisht  bee." 

' '  Now,  dame,  that  traytoure  shall  be  sent 

Across  the  salt  sea  fome  : 
■^  But  here  I  will  make  thee  a  band, 
If  ever  he  come  within  this  land, 

A  foule  deathe  is  his  doome." 

All  woebegone  was  that  gentil  knight 

To  parte  from  his  ladj-e  ; 
-iid  many  a  time  he  sighed  sore, 

And  cast  a  wistfulle  e^'e  : 
"  Faire  Christabelle,  from  thee  to  parte, 

Farre  lever  had  I  dj^e." 

Fair  ChristabeUe,  that  ladye  bright, 

Was  had  forthe  of  the  towre  ; 
But  ever  shee  droopetji  in  her  minde, 
As  nipt  by  an  ungentle  winde 

Doth  some  faire  lillye  flowre. 

And  ever  shee  doth  lament  and  weepe 

To  tint  her  lover  soe  : 
"  Sir  Cauline,  thou  little  think'st  on  mee, 

But  I  will  still  be  true," 


Sir  Cauline 


243 


Manye  a  kinge,  and  manye  a  duke, 
And  lorde  of  high  degree, 

Did  sue  to  that  fayre  ladye  of  love  ; 
But  never  shee  wolde  them  nee. 


When  manye  a  daye  was  past  and  gone, 

Ne  comfort  she  colde  finde. 
The  kynge  proclaimed  a  toumeament, 

To  cheere  his  daughter's  mind  : 

A.nd  there  came  lords,  and  there  came  knights, 

Fro  manye  a  farre  countrye. 
To  break  a  spere  for  theyr  ladyes  love 

Before  that  faire  ladye. 

And  manye  a  ladye  there  vras  sette 

In  purple  and  in  palle  : 
But  fair  Christabelle  soe  woe-begone 

Was  the  fayrest  of  them  all. 

Then  manye  a  knight  vras  mickle  of  might 

Before  his  ladye  gaye  ; 
But  a  stranger  wight,  whom  no  man  knewe, 

He  wan  the  prize  eche  daye.* 

*  Sir  Cauline  is  here  made  to  act  up  to  the  genuine 
spirit  of  perfect  chivalry.  In  old  romances  no  incident  is 
of  more  frequent  occurrence  than  this,  of  kniffhts  already 
distinguished  for  feats  of  arms  laying  aside  their  wonted 
cognizances,  and,  under  the  semblance  of  strange  knights, 
manfully  performing  right  valiant  deeds.  How  often 
does  the  renowned  Arthur,  under  such  circumstances,  ex- 
claim, "  O,  Jesu  I  what  knyte  is  that  arrayed  all  in  greene 
(or  as  the  case  maybe)?  He  justeth  myghtely!"  The 
Emperor  of  Almaine,  in  like  manner,  after  the  timely 
succour  afforded  him  by  Syr  Gowhter,  is  anxious  to  learn 
the  name  of  his  modest  but  unknown  deliverer: 


"  Now  dere  God,"  said  the  Emperor, 

"  Whence  com  the  knyght  that  is  so  styfe  and  stoure, 

And  al  araide  in  rede. 

Both  hors,  armour,  and  his  stede? 

A  thousand  Sarezyns  he  hath  made  blede. 

And  beteen  hem  to  dethe. 

That  heder  is  com  to  helpe  me. 

And  yesterday  in  black  was  he." 


244 


Sir  Caulfne 


His  acton  it  was  all  of  blacke, 

His  hewberke,  and  his  sheelde, 
Xe  noe  man  wist  whence  he  did  come, 
Ne  noe  man  knewe  where  he  did  gone, 

When  they  came  from  the  feelde. 
And  now  three  days  were  prestlye  past 

In  feates  of  chivalrye, 
When  lo  upon  the  fourth  mornings 

A  sorrowfulle  sight  they  see. 
A  hugye  giaunt  stiflFe  and  starke, 

All  foule  of  limbe  and  lere  ; 
Two  goggling  eyen  like  fire  farden, 

A  mouthe  from  eare  to  eare. 
Before  him  came  a  dwarffe  full  lowe, 

That  waited  on  his  knee  ; 
And  at  his  backe  five  heads  he  bare, 

All  wan  and  pale  of  blee. 

"  Sir,"  quoth  the  dwarffe,  and  louted  lowe, 

"  Behold  that  hend  Soldain  ! 
Behold  these  heads  I  beare  with  me  ! 

They  are  kings  which  he  hath  slain. 
"  The  Eldridge  knight  is  his  own  cousine, 

Whom  a  knight  of  thine  hath  shent : 
And  hee  is  come  to  avenge  his  wrong. 
And  to  thee,  all  thy  knightes  among, 

Defiance  here  hath  sent. 
"  But  yette  he  will  appease  his  wrath 

Thy  daughter's  love  to  winne  ; 
And  but  thou  j-eelde  him  that  fajTe  mayd. 

Thj-  halls  and  towers  must  brenne. 
"  Thy  head,  sir  king,  must  goe  with  mee, 

Or  else  thy  daughter  deere  ; 
Or  else  within  these  lists  soe  broad 

Thou  must  finde  him  a  peere. " 


Sir  Caulfne 


245 


The  king  he  turned  him  round  aboute, 

And  in  his  heart  was  woe  : 
"  Is  there  never  a  knighte  of  my  round  table 

This  matter  will  undergoe  ? 

"  Is  there  never  a  knighte  amongst  yee  al! 

Will  fight  for  my  daughter  and  mee  ? 
Whoever  will  fight  yon  grimme  soldan, 

Right  fair  his  meede  shall  bee. 

"  For  hee  shall  have  my  broad  lay-lands, 

And  of  my  crowne  be  heyre  ; 
And  he  shall  winne  fayre  Christabelle 

To  be  his  wedded  fere." 

But  every  knighte  of  his  round  table 

Did  stand  both  still  and  pale  : 
For  whenever  they  lookt  on  the  grim  soldan, 
j     It  made  their  hearts  to  quail. 

All  woe-begone  was  that  fayre  ladye, 
When  she  sawe  no  helpe  was  nye  : 

She  cast  her  thought  on  her  owne  true-love, 
And  the  teares  gusht  from  her  eye. 

Up  then  sterte  the  stranger  knighte, 
Sayd  :  "  I^adye,  be  not  afirayd  ; 

He  fight  for  thee  with  this  grimme  soldan, 
Thoughe  he  be  unmacklye  made. 

"  And  if  thou  wilt  lend  me  the  Eldridge 
That  lyeth  within  thy  bowre,        [sworde, 

I  trust  in  Christe  for  to  slay  this  fiende, 
Thoughe  he  be  stiffe  and  stowre." 

"Goe  fetch  him  downe the  FJldridge  sworde," 
The  king  he  cryde,  "  with  speede  : 

Noweheaven  assist  thee,  courteous  knighte ; 
My  daughter  is  thy  meede." 


246 


Sir  Caullne 


The  gyaunt  he  stepped  into  the  lists, 

And  sayd  :  "  Awaye,  awaye  ; 
I  sweare,  as  I  am  the  hend  soldan, 

Thou  lettest  me  here  all  daye." 

Then  forthe  the  stranger  knight  he  came, 

In  his  blacke  armoure  dight : 
The  ladye  sighed  a  gentle  sighe, 

"  That  this  were  my  true  knighte  !  " 

And  nowe  the  gyaunt  and  knighte  are  mett 

Within  the  lists  soe  broad  ; 
And  nowwith  swordes  soe  sharpe  of  Steele, 

Thej'  gan  to  lay  on  load. 

The  soldan  strucke  the  knighte  a  stroke, 

That  made  him  reele  asyde  ; 
Then  woe-begone  was  that  fayre  ladye, 

And  thrice  she  deeply  sighde. 

The  soldan  strucke  a  second  stroke, 
And  made  the  bloude  to  flowe  : 

All  pale  and  wan  was  that  ladye  fayre. 
And  thrice  she  wept  for  woe. 

The  soldan  strucke  a  third  fell  stroke, 
Which  brought  the  knighte  on  his  knee  : 

Sad  sorrow  pierced  that  ladye's  heart, 
And  she  shriekt  loud  shriekings  three. 

The  knighte  he  leapt  upon  his  feete. 

All  recklesse  of  the  pain  : 
Quoth  hee,  "  But  heaven  be  now  my  speede. 

Or  else  I  shall  be  slaine." 

He  grasped  his  sworde  with   mayne  and 
And  spying  a  secrette  part,  [mighte, 

He  drave  it  into  the  soldan's  syde. 
And  pierced  him  to  the  heart. 


sir  CauUne 


247 


Then  all  the  people  gave  a  shoute, 
Whan  they  sawe  the  soldan  falle  : 

The  ladye  wept,  and  thankM  Christ, 
That  had  reskewed  her  from  thrall. 

And  nowe  the  kinge  with  all  his  barons 

Rose  uppe  from,  offe  his  seate, 
And  downe  he  stepped  into  the  listes, 

That  curteous  knighte  to  greete. 

But  he  for  payne  and  lack  of  bloude 

Was  fallen  into  a  swounde. 
And  there  all  walteringe  in  his  gore 

I^ay  lifelesse  on  the  grounde. 

"  Come  downe,  come  downe,  my  daughter 

Thou  art  a  leeche  of  skille  ;  [deare, 

Farre  lever  had  I  lose  halfe  my  landes, 

Than  this  good  knighte  sholde  spille." 
Downe  then  steppeth  that  fayre  ladye, 

To  helpe  him  if  she  maye ; 
But  when  she  did  his  beavere  raise, 
"  It  is  my  life,  my  lord,"  she  sayes. 

And  shriekte  and  swound  awaye. 
Sir  Cauline  juste  lifle  up  his  eyes 

When  he  hearde  his  ladye  crye, 
"  O  ladye,  I  am  thine  owne  true  love  ; 

For  thee  I  wisht  to  dye. ' ' 

Then  giving  her  one  partinge  looke, 

He  closed  his  eyes  in  death, 
Ere  Christabelle,  that  ladye  milde, 

Begane  to  drawe  her  breath. 

But  when  she  found  her  comelye  knighte 

Indeed  was  dead  and  gone. 
She  layde  her  pale  cold  cheeke  to  his, 

And  thus  she  made  her  moane  ; 


248 


Sir  Cauline 


"  O  staye,  my  deare  and  onlye  lord, 
For  mee  thy  faithfuUe  fere  ; 
f^/Ti^^    'T  is  meet  that  I  shold  followe  thee, 
^»     Whohastbought  my  love  soe  deare.' 


Then  fayntinge  in  a  dead  lye  swoune. 
And  with  a  deepe-fette  sighe, 

That  burst  her  gentle  hearte  in  twayne, 
Fayre  Christabelle  did  dye. 


IRutb 


249 


r^r 


.hS;> 


*  See  Appendix. 


RUTH.* 


When  Ruth  was  left  half  desolate, 
Her  Father  took  another  Mate  ; 
And  Ruth,  not  seven  years  old, 
A  slighted  Child,  at  her  own  will 
Went  wandering  over  dale  and  hill, 
In  thoughtless  freedom  bold. 
And  she  had  made  a  Pipe  of  straw. 
And  from  that  oaten  Pipe  could  draw 
All  sounds  of  winds  and  floods  ; 
Had  built  a  Eower  upon  the  green, 
As  if  she  from  her  birth  had  been 
An  Infant  of  the  woods. 


•Rutb 


Beneath  her  Father's  roof  alone 

She  seem'd  to  live  ;  her  thoughts  her  own, 

Herself  her  own  delight ; 

Pleased  with  herself,  nor  sad,  nor  gay  ; 

And,  passing  thus  the  livelong  day, 

She  grew  to  woman's  height. 

There  came  a  Youth  from  Georg^ia's  shore- 

A  military'  Casque  he  wore. 

With  splendid  feathers  drest ; 

He  brought  them  from  the  Cherokees  : 

The  feathers  nodded  in  the  breeze, 

And  made  a  gallant  crest. 

From  Indian  blood  you  deem  him  sprung  : 

Ah  no  !  he  spake  the  English  tongue, 

And  bore  a  Soldier's  njime  ; 

And,  when  America  was  free 


-  \  From  battle  and  from  jeopardy, 


He  cross  the  ocean  came. 

With  hues  of  genius  on  his  cheek, 

In  finest  tones  the  Youth  could  speak  : 

— While  he  was  yet  a  Boy, 

The  moon,  the  glory  of  the  sun. 

And  streams  that  murmur  as  they  run, 

Had  been  his  dearest  joy. 

He  was  a  lovely  Youth  !    I  guess 

The  panther  in  the  wilderness 

Was  not  so  fair  as  he  ; 

And,  when  he  chose  to  sport  and  play. 

No  dolphin  ever  was  so  gay 

Upon  the  tropic  sea. 

Among  the  Indians  he  had  fought ; 

And  with  him  manj'  tales  he  brought 

Of  pleasure  and  of  fear  ; 

Such  tales  as  told  to  any  Maid 

By  such  a  Youth,  in  the  green  shade, 

Were  perilous  to  hear. 


IRutb 


251 


He  told  of  Girls — a  happy  rout ! 
Who  quit  their  fold  with  dance  and  shout, 
Their  pleasant  Indian  Town, 
To  gather  strawberries  all  day  long ; 
Returning  with  a  choral  song 
When  daylight  is  gone  down. 
He  spake  of  plants  divine  and  strange 
That  every  hour  their  blossoms  change. 
Ten  thousand  lovely  hues  ! 
With  budding,  fading,  faded  flowers 
They  stand  the  wonder  of  the  bowers 
From  mom  to  evening  dews. 
He  told  of  the  Magnolia,  spread 
High  as  a  cloud,  high  over  head  ! 
The  Cypress  and  her  spire  ; 
' — Of  flowers  that  with  one  scarlet  gleam 
Cover  a  hundred  leagues,  and  seem 
To  set  the  hills  on  fire. 
The  Youth  of  green  savannahs  spake. 
And  many  an  endless,  endless  lake, 
With  all  its  fairy  crowds 
Of  islands,  that  together  lie 
As  quietly  as  spots  of  sky 
Among  the  evening  clouds. 
And  then  he  said  :  ' '  How  sweet  it  were 
A  fisher  or  a  hunter  there, 
A  gardener  in  the  shade 
Still  wandering  with  an  easy  mind. 
To  build  a  household  fire,  and  find 
A  home  in  every  glade  ! 
"  What  days,  and  what  sweet  years  !  Ah  me  ! 
Our  life  were  life  indeed,  with  thee 
So  pass'd  in  quiet  bliss  ; 
And  all  the  while,"  said  he,  "  to  know 
That  we  were  in  a  world  of  woe, 
On  such  an  earth  as  this  ! " 


252 


IRutb 


And  then  lie  sometimes  interwove 

Fond  thoughts  about  a  Father's  love  : 

' '  For  there, ' '  said  he,  "  are  spun 

Around  the  heart  such  tender  ties, 

That  our  own  children  to  our  eyes 

Are  dearer  than  the  sun, 

"  Sweet  Ruth  !  and  could  you  go  with  me, 

My  helpmate  in  the  woods  to  be, 

Our  shed  at  night  to  rear ; 

Or  run,  my  own  adopted  Bride, 

A  sj'lvan  Huntress  at  my  side, 

And  drive  the  flying  deer  ! 

"  Beloved  Ruth  !  " — No  more  he  said. 

The  wakeful  Ruth  at  midnight  shed 

A  solitary  tear : 

She  thought  again — and  did  agree 

With  him  to  sail  across  the  sea, 

And  drive  the  flying  deer. 

"  And  now,  as  fitting  is  and  right. 

We  in  the  Church  our  faith  will  plight, 

A  Husband  and  a  Wife." 

Even  so  they  did  ;  and  I  may  say 

That  to  sweet  Ruth  that  happy  day 

Was  more  than  human  life. 

Through  dream  and  vision  did  she  sink, 

Delighted  all  the  while  to  think, 

That  on  those  lonesome  floods, 

And  green  savannahs,  she  should  share 

His  board  with  lawful  joy,  and  bear 

His  name  in  the  wild  woods. 

But,  as  you  have  before  been  told, 

This  Stripling,  sportive,  gay,  and  bold, 

And  with  his  dancing  crest 

So  beautiful,  through  savage  lands 

Had  roam'd  about,  with  vagrant  bands 

Of  Indians  in  the  West. 


IRutb 


253 


The  wind,  the  tempest  roaring  high 
The  tumult  of  a  tropic  sky, 
Might  well  be  dangerous  food 
For  him,  a  Youth  to  whom  was  given 
So  much  of  earth — so  much  of  Heaven, 
And  such  impetuous  blood. 
Whatever  in  those  Climes  he  found 
Irregular  in  sight  or  sound 
Did  to  his  mind  impart 
A  kindred  impulse,  seem'd  allied 
To  his  own  powers,  and  justified 
The  workings  of  his  heart. 
Nor  less,  to  feed  voluptuous  thought, 
The  beauteous  forms  of  nature  wrought 
Fair  trees  and  lovely  flowers  ; 
The  breezes  their  own  languor  lent ; 
The  stars  had  feelings,  which  they  sent 
Into  those  gorgeous  bowers. 
Yet,  in  his  worst  pursuits,  I  ween 
That  sometimes  there  did  intervene 
Pure  hopes  of  high  intent ; 
For  passions  link'd  to  forms  so  fair 
\nd  stately,  needs  must  have  their  share 
Of  noble  sentiment. 
But  ill  he  lived,  much  evil  saw. 
With  men  to  whom  no  better  law 
Nor  better  life  was  known  ; 
Deliberately,  and  undeceived. 
Those  wild  men's  vices  he  received, 
And  gave  them  back  his  own. 
His  genius  and  his  moral  frame 
Were  thus  impair'd,  and  he  became 
The  slave  of  low  desires  : 
A  Man  who  without  self-control 
Would  seek  what  the  degraded  soul 
Unworthily  admires. 


254 


IRutb 


And  yet  he  with  no  feign 'd  delight 
Had  woo'd  the  Maiden,  day  and  night 
Had  loved  her,  night  and  mom  : 
What  could  he  less  than  love  a  Maid 
Whose  heart  with  so  much  nature  play'd? 
So  kind  and  so  forlorn  ! 
Sometimes,  most  earnestly,  he  said, 
"  O  Ruth  !  I  have  been  worse  than  dead ; 
False  thoughts,  thoughts  bold  and  vain, 
Encompass'd  me  on  every  side 
When  first,  in  confidence  and  pride, 
I  cross'd  the  Atlantic  Main. 
"  It  was  a  fresh  and  glorious  world, 
A  banner  bright  that  was  unfurl'd 
Before  me  suddenly : 
I  look'd  upon  those  hills  and  plains, 
And  seem'd  as  if  let  loose  from  chains, 
To  live  at  liberty. 

"  But  wherefore  speak  of  this?  For  now, 
Sweet  Ruth  !  with  thee,  I  know  not  how, 
I  feel  my  spirit  bum— 
]^en  as  the  east  when  day  comes  forth, 
And  to  the  west,  and  south,  and  north, 
f>  The  morning  doth  return." 

Full  soon  that  purer  mind  was  gone  ; 
No  hope,  no  wish  remain 'd,  not  one, — 
They  stirr'd  him  now  no  more  ; 
New  objects  did  new  pleasure  give. 
And  once  again  he  wish'd  to  live 
As  lawless  as  before. 
Meanwhile,  as  thus  with  him  it  fared, 
They  for  the  voyage  were  prepared, 
And  went  to  the  sea-shore  ; 
But  when  they  thither  came,  the  Youtn 
Deserted  his  poor  Bride,  and  Ruth 
Could  never  find  him  more. 


IRutb 


255 


"  God  help  thee,  Ruth  !  " — Such  pains  she 

That  she  in  half  a  year  was  mad,  [had, 

And  in  a  prison  housed  ; 

And  there  she  sang  tumultuous  songs. 

By  recollection  of  her  wrongs 

To  fearful  passion  roused. 

Yet  sometimes  milder  hours  she  knew, 

Nor  wanted  sun,  nor  rain,  nor  dew, 

Nor  pastimes  of  the  May, 

— They  all  were  with  her  in  her  cell ; 

And  a  wild  brook  with  cheerful  knell 

Did  o'er  the  pebbles  play. 

When  Ruth  three  seasons  thus  had  lain 

There  came  a  respite  to  her  pain ; — 

She  from  her  prison  fled  ; 

But  of  the  Vagrant  none  took  thought ; 

And  where  it  liked  her  best  she  sought 

Her  shelter  and  her  bread. 

Among  the  fields  she  breathed  again 

The  master-current  of  her  brain 

Ran  permanent  and  free  ; 

And,  coming  to  the  banks  of  Tone, 

There  did  she  rest,  and  dwell  alone 

Under  the  greenwood  tree. 

The  engines  of  her  pain,  the  tools 

That  shaped  her  sorrow,  rocks  and  pools. 

And  airs  that  gently  stir 

The  vernal  leaves,  she  loved  them  still. 

Nor  ever  tax'd  them  with  the  ill 

Which  had  been  done  to  her. 

A  Barn  her  winter  bed  supplies ; 

But,  till  the  warmth  of  summer  skies 

And  summer  days  is  gone 

(And  all  do  in  this  tale  agree). 

She  sleeps  beneath  the  greenwood  tree. 

And  other  home  hath  none. 


256 


•Rutb 


An  innocent  life,  j'et  far  astray  ! 
And  Ruth  will,  long  before  her  day, 
Be  broken  down  and  old  : 
Sore  aches  she  needs  must  have  !  but  less 
Of  mind  than  body's  wretchedness, 
From  damp,  and  rain,  and  cold, 
If  she  is  prest  by  want  of  food. 
She  from  her  dwelling  in  the  wood 
Repairs  to  a  road-side  ; 
And  there  she  begs  at  one  steep  place, 
Where  up  and  down  with  easy  pace 
The  horsemen-travellers  ride. 
That  oaten  Pipe  of  hers  is  mute. 
Or  thrown  away  ;  but  with  a  flute 
Her  loneliness  she  cheers  : 
This  flute,  made  of  a  hemlock  stalk, 
At  evening  in  his  homeward  walk 
The  Quantock  Woodman  hears. 
I,  too,  have  pass'd  her  on  the  hills 
Setting  her  little  water-mills 
By  spouts  and  fountains  wild- 
Such  small  machinery  as  she  tum'd 
Ere  she  had  wept,  ere  she  had  moum'd, 
A  young  and  happy  Child  ! 
Farewell !  and  when  thy  days  are  told, 
Ill-fated  Ruth  !  in  hallow'd  mould 
Thy  corpse  shall  buried  be  ; 
For  thee  a  funeral  bell  shall  ring, 
And  all  the  congregation  sing 
Christian  psalm  for  thee. 


*s>. 


IRobln  fboo^  anD  (5ui?  of  (3i0borne 


257 


ROBIN  HOOD  AND  GUY  OF  GISBORNE.* 


When  shaws  beene  sheene,  and  shradds  full  fayrc 

And  leaves  both  large  and  longe, 
Itt  is  merrye  walking  in  the  fayre  forr^t 

To  heare  the  small  birdes  songe. 

The  woodweele  sang,  and  wold  not  cease, 

Sitting  upon  the  spraye, 
Soe  lowde,  he  awakened  Robin  Hood, 

In  the  greenwood  where  he  lay. 

"  Now  by  my  faye,"  said  jolly  Robin, 

"  A  sweaven  I  had  this  night ; 
I  dreamt  me  of  two  wighty  yemen, 

That  fast  with  me  can  fight. 

"  Methought  they  did  me  beate  and  binde. 

And  took  my  bow  mee  froe ; 
If  I  be  Robin  alive  in  this  lande, 

He  be  wroken  on  them  towe." 


*  See  Appendix. 


258 


*Kol)in  fboob  ant>  (5ub  of  (Bfsborne 


"Sweavens  are  swift,  master,"  quoth  John, 

"  As  the  wind  that  blowes  ore  a  hill ; 
For  if  itt  be  never  so  loude  this  night, 

To  morrow  itt  may  be  still." 
"  Buske  yee,  bowne  yee,  my  merry  men  all, 

And  John  shall  goe  with  mee, 
For  He  goe  seeke  yond  wight  yeomen, 

In  greenwood  where  the  bee." 
Then  the  cast  on  their  gownes  of  grene, 
,^  .  y      And  tooke  theyr  bowes  each  one  ; 
%■  <Y    And  they  away  to  the  greene  forr&t 
|<      A  shooting  forth  are  gone. 
,'     Until  they  came  to  the  merry  greenwood, 
Where  they  had  gladdest  bee, 
There  were  the  ware  of  a  wight  yeomka, 
'         His  body  leaned  to  a  tree. 

A  sword  and  a  dagger  he  wore  by  his  side, 

Of  man  ye  a  man  the  bane  ; 
And  he  was  clad  in  his  capull  hyde 

Topp  and  tayll  and  mayne. 
"Stand   you   still,  master,"  quoth   I^ittle 

"  Under  this  tree  so  grene  ;  [John. 

And  I  will  go  to  yond  wight  yeoman 

To  know  what  he  doth  meane." 
"  Ah  !  John,  by  me  thou  settest  noe  store, 

And  that  I  farley  finde  : 
How  oSt  send  I  my  men  beffore. 

And  tarry  my  selfe  behinde  ? 
"  It  is  no  cunning  a  knave  to  ken. 

And  a  man  but  heare  him  speake  ; 
And  itt  were  not  for  bursting  of  my  bowe, 

John,  I  thy  head  would  breake." 
As  often  wordes  they  breeden  bale. 

So  they  parted  Robin  and  John  ; 


"Kobin  IbooD  an&  (Bui?  of  ©iaborne 


259 


And  John  is  gone  to  Barnesdale  : 

The  gates  he  knoweth  eche  one. 
But  when  he  came  to  Barnesdale, 

Great  heaviness  there  hee  hadd, 
For  he  found  tow  of  his  owne  fellow&s 

Were  slaine  both  in  a  slade. 
And  Scarlette  he  was  flyinge  a-foote 

Fast  over  stocke  and  stone, 
For  the  sheriffe  with  seven  score  men 

Fast  after  him  is  gone. 
' '  One  shoote  now  I  will  shoote, ' '  quoth  John , 

"  With  Christ  his  might  and  mayne  ; 
He  make  yond  fellow  that  flyes  soe  fast, 

To  stopp  he  shall  be  fayne." 
Then  John  bent  up  his  long  bende-bow, 

And  fetteled  him  to  shoote  : 
The  bow  was  made  of  a  tender  boughe. 

And  fell  downe  to  his  foote. 

"  Woe  worth,  woe  worth  thee,  wicked  wood. 

That  ere  thou  grew  on  a  tree  ; 
For  now  this  day  thou  art  my  bale, 

My  boote  when  thou  shold  bee." 
His  shoote  it  was  but  loosely  shott. 

Yet  flewe  not  the  arrowe  in  vaine  ; 
$»=  For  itt  mett  one  of  the  sheriffes  men, 

Good  William  a  Trent  was  slaine. 
It  had  bene  better  of  William  a  Trent 

To  have  bene  abed  with  sorrowe. 
Than  to  be  that  day  in  the  green  wood  slade 

To  meet  with  lyittle  John's  arrowe. 
But  as  it  is  said,  when  men  be  mett, 

Tyve  can  doe  more  than  three, 
The  sheriffe  hath  taken  lyittle  John, 

And  bound  him  /ast  to  a  tree. 


26o        IRobin  "fcooD  an&  (5ui?  of  ©isborne 


"  Thou  Shalt  be  drawen  by  dale  and  downe. 

And  hanged  hye  on  a  hill." 
"But  thou  mayst  fayle  of  thy  purpose," 

" If  itt  be  Christ  his  will."  [quoth  John, 
I^et  us  leave  talking  of  Little  John, 

And  thinke  of  Robin  Hood, 
How  he  is  gone  to  the  wight  yeomlln, 

Where  under  the  leaves  he  stood. 

"  Good  morrowe,  good  fellowe,"  said  Robin 
so  fayre, 

"Good  morrowe,  good  fellowe,"  quoth  he : 
"  Methinkes  by  this  bowe  thou  beares  in  thy 

A  good  archere  thou  sholdst  bee."    [hande 

IfQ     "I  am  wilfull  of  my  waye, ' '  quo  the  yeman, 
"         "And  of  my  morning  tyde."  [Robin; 

"lie  lead  thee  through  the  wood,"  sayd 
"  Good  fellow,  He  be  thy  guide." 

"I seeke  an  outl^we,"  the  straunger  sayd, 

"  Men  call  him  Robin  Hood  ; 
Rather  He  meet  with  that  proud  outl^we 

Than  fortye  pound  soe  good,"' 

"  Now  come  with  me  thou  wighty  yeman. 
And  Robin  thou  soone  shalt  see  : 

But  first  let  us  some  pastime  find 
Under  the  greenwood  tree. 

"  First  let  us  some  masterj^e  make 

Among  the  woods  so  even. 
Wee  may  chance  to  meet  with  Robin  Hood 

Here  att  some  unsett  steven." 

They  cutt  them  downe  two  summer  shroggs, 
That  grew  both  under  a  breere. 

And  sett  them  threescore  rood  in  twaine 
To  shoot  the  prickes  y-fere. 


IRobtn  IbooD  anC)  (5us  ot  ©feborne 


261 


"  I^eade  on,  good  fellowe,"    quoth.    Robin 

"  I,eade  on,  I  doe  bidd  thee."  [Hood, 

"  Nay  by  my  faith,  good  fellowe,"  he  sayd, 

"  My  leader  thou  shalt  bee." 
The  first  time  Robin  shot  at  the  pricke. 

He  mist  but  an  inch  it  froe  : 
The  yeoman  he  was  an  archer  good. 

But  he  cold  never  shoote  soe. 
The  second  shoote  had  the  wightye  yeoman, 

He  shote  within  the  garlS,nde  : 
But  Robin  he  shot  far  better  than  he. 

For  he  clave  the  good  pricke  wande. 
"  A  blessing  upon  thy  heart,"  he  sayd  ; 

"  Good  fellowe,  thy  shooting  is  goode  ; 
For  an  thy  hart  be  as  good  as  thy  hand. 

Thou  wert  better  than  Robin  Hoode." 

"Now  tell  me  thy  name,  good  fellowe," 
' '  Under  the  leaves  of  lyne. ' '         [sayd  he, 

"  Nay  by  my  faith,"  quoth  bolde  Robin, 
"  Till  thou  have  told  me  thine." 

"  I  dwell  by  dale  and  downe,"  quoth  he, 

"  And  Robin  to  take  Ime  sworn  ; 
And  when  I  am  called  by  my  right  name 

I  am  Guye  of  good  Gisbdrne." 
"  My  dwelling  is  in  this  wood,"  sayes  Robin, 

"  By  thee  I  set  right  nought : 
I  am  Robin  Hoode  of  Barnfedale, 

Whom  thou  so  long  hast  sought." 
He  that  had  neither  beene  kithe  nor  kin, 

Might  have  seen  a  full  fayre  sight. 
To  see  how  together  these  yeomen  went 

With  blades  both  browne  and  bright. 
To  see  how  these  yeomen  together  they 

Two  howres  of  a  summers  day  :     [fought 


262 


IRoWn  1boot)  anD  (5ui2  of  ©tsborne 


Yett  neither  Robin  Hood  nor  Sir  Guy 

Them  fettled  to  flye  away. 
Robin  was  reachles  on  a  roote, 

And  stumbled  at  that  tyde ; 
And  Guy  was  quicke  and  nimble  with-all, 

And  hitt  him  ore  the  left  side. 
• '  Ah,  deare  lady, ' '  sayd  Robin  Hood,  ' ' '  thou 

That  art  both  mother  and  may,' 
I  think  it  was  never  mans  destinye 

To  dye  before  his  day." 
Robin  thought  on  our  ladye  deere, 

And  soone  leapt  up  againe, 
And  strait  he  came  with  a  backward  stroke, 

And  he  Sir  Guy  hath  slayne. 
He  took  Sir  Guy's  head  by  the  hayre, 

And  sticked  itt  on  his  bowes  end  : 
' '  Thou  hast  been  a  traytor  all  thy  liflfe, 

Which  thing  must  have  an  ende." 

Robin  pulled  forth  an  Irish  kniffe, 

And  nicked  Sir  Guy  in  the  face, 
That  he  was  never  of  woman  bom. 

Cold  tell  whose  head  it  was. 
^-  <^  Saies  "  Lye  there,  lye  there,  now  Sir  Guye, 
<-'-  "\  If "  \       And  with  me  be  not  wrothe  ;  [hand, 

^  ^     If  thou  have  had  the  worse  strokes  at  my 

Thou  shalt  have  the  better  clothe." 
Robin  did  off  his  gowne  of  greene. 

And  on  Sir  Guy  did  it  throwe  ; 
And  he  put  on  that  capull  hyde, 

That  cladd  him  topp  to  toe. 
"The  bowe,  the  arrowes,  and  litle  home, 

Now  with  me  I  will  beare ; 
For  I  will  away  to  Bamfedale, 

To  see  how  my  men  doe  fare." 


IRobin  moot)  anO  (5n^  ot  (5(sborne 


263 


Robin  Hood  sett  Guy's  home  to  his  mouth, 

And  a  loud  blast  in  it  did  blow, 
That  beheard  the  sheriffe  of  Nottingham, 

As  he  leaned  under  a  lowe. 
"Hearken,  hearken,"  sayd  the  sheriflfe, 

"I  heare  nowe  tydings  good, 
For  yonder  I  heare  Sir  Guye's  home  blowe. 

And  he  hath  slaine  Robin  Hoode. 
"Yonder  I  heare  Sir  Guye's  home  blowe, 

Itt  blowes  soe  well  in  tyde, 
And  yonder  comes  that  wightye  yeoman, 

Cladd  in  his  capull  hyde. 
"  Come  hyther,  come  hyther,  thou  good  Sir 

Aske  what  thou  wilt  of  mee."  [Guye, 

"  O,  I  will  none  of  thy  gold,"  sayd  Robin, 

"  Nor  I  will  none  of  thy  fee  : 
"  But  now  I  've  slaine  the  master,"  he  sayes, 

"  I^et  me  goe  strike  the  knave  ; 
This  is  all  the  rewarde  I  aske  ; 

Nor  noe  other  will  I  have." 

"Thou  art  a  madman,"  said  the  sheriffe, 

"  Thou  sholdest  have  had  a  knight's  fee  : 
But  seeing  thy  asking  hath  beene  soe  bad, 

Well  granted  it  shale  be." 
When  lyitle  John  heard  his  master  speake, 

Well  knewe  he  it  was  his  steven  : 
"  Now  shall  I  be  looset,"  quoth  I,itle  John, 

"  With  Christ  his  might  in  heaven." 
Fast  Robin  he  hyed  him  to  I^itle  John, 

He  thought  to  loose  him  belive  ; 
The  sheriffe  and  all  his  companye 

Fast  after  him  did  drive. 
"  Stand  abacke,  stand  abacke,"  sayd  Robin  ; 

' '  Why  draw  you  mee  soe  neere  ? 


264 


"Robfn  "fcooD  anD  6u^  of  (5i6bovne 


Itt  was  never  the  use  in  our  country^ 
One's  shrift  another  shold  heere." 

But  Robin  pulled  forth  an  Irish  knifie, 
And  loosed  John  hand  and  foote. 

And  gave  him  Sir  Guy's  bow  into  his  hand 
And  bade  it  be  his  boote. 

Then  John  he  tooke  Guy's  bow  in  his  hand^ 
His  boltes  and  arrowes  eche  one  :         [bow- 
When  the  sheriffe  saw  Litle  John  bend  his 
He  fettled  him  to  be  gone. 

Towards  his  house  in  Nottingham  towne 

He  fled  full  fast  away  ; 
And  soe  did  all  his  companye  : 

Not  one  behind  wold  stay. 

But  he  cold  neither  runne  soe  fast, 

Nor  away  soe  fast  cold  ryde, 
But  I,itle  John  with  an  arrowe  so  broad 

He  shott  him  into  the  syde. 


IJ  XN  X  V  XjX\fc3X  J-    J- 


tRoUn  lbooD'0  Dcatb  ant)  36\xvm 


£f"CALIEORHV^ 


^^^^^^^^^^^^^lwk;-  n.ii,„^ 


ROBIV  HOOD  S  DEATH 
AND  BURIAL  * 
When  Robin  Hood  ind  Little  John, 

Went  o  er  yon  bank  of  broom, 
S-iid  Robin  Hood  to  Little  John, 

"We  have  shot  for  many  a  pound  ; 
"But  I  am  not  able  to  shoot  one  shot  more, 

My  arrows  will  not  flee  ; 
But  I  have  a  cousin  lives  down  below. 

Please  God  she  will  bleed  me." 


•  See  Appendi 


266 


"Robin  1boo&'8  Deatb  anD  :©urial 


Now  Robin  is  to  fair  Kirkley  gone, 

As  fast  as  he  can  win  ; 
But  before  he  came  there,  as  we  do  hear, 

He  was  taken  very  ill. 


And  when  that  he  came  to  fair  Kirkley-hall, 

He  knock'd  all  at  the  ring, 
But  none  was  so  ready  as  his  cousin  herself 

For  to  let  bold  Robin  in. 

Will  you  please  to  sit  down,  cousin  Robin," 

she  said, 
•'  And  drink  some  beer  with  me  ?  " 
Xo,  I  will  neither  eat  nor  drink, 
Till  I  am  blooded  by  thee." 

"  Well,  I  have  a  room,  cousin  Robin,"  she 
said, 

"  Which  you  did  never  see. 
And  if  you  please  to  walk  therein. 

You  blooded  by  me  shall  be. ' ' 

She  took  him  by  the  lilly-white  hand. 

And  led  him  to  a  private  room, 
And  there  she  blooded  bold  Robin  Hood, 

Whilst  one  drop  of  blood  would  run. 

She  blooded  him  in  the  vein  of  the  arm, 
And  locked  him  up  in  the  room  ; 

There  did  he  bleed  all  the  live-long  day, 
Untill  the  next  day  at  noon. 


He  then  bethought  him  of  a  casement  door, 

Thinking  for  to  be  gone. 
He  was  so  weak  he  could  not  leap, 

Nor  he  could  not  get  down, 


IRoMn  IbooD's  Deatb  anD  3Burlal  267 

He  then  bethought  him  of  his  bugle-horn, 

Which  hung  low  down  to  his  knee, 
He  set  his  horn  unto  his  mouth, 

And  blew  out  weak  blasts  three. 
Then  I^ittle  John,  when  hearing  him, 

As  he  sat  under  the  tree, 
"  I  fear  my  master  is  near  dead, 

He  blows  so  wearily." 
Then  Ivittle  John  to  fair  Kirkley  is  gone, 

As  fast  as  he  can  dree  ; 
But  when  he  came  to  Kirkley-hall, 

He  broke  locks  two  or  three : 

Untill  he  came  bold  Robin  to. 

Then  he  fell  on  his  knee  ; 
"  A  boon,  a  boon,"  cries  I^ittle  John, 

"  Master,  I  beg  of  thee." 

"  What  is  that  boon,"  quoth  Robin  Hood, 
"  I,ittle  John,  thou  begs  of  me  ?  " 

"  It  is  to  burn  fair  Kirkley  hall, 
And  all  their  nunnery." 

"  Now  nay,  now  nay,"  quoth  Robin  Hood, 
"That  boon  I  '11  not  grant  thee  ; 
never  '  hurt '  woman  in  all  my  life, 
Nor  man  in  woman's  company. 

— ^  ^T?^^  J^   '  I  never  hurt  fair  maid  in  all  my  time, 
**-   .^^^jisiw^    *^-'     '     Nor  at  my  end  shall  it  be ; 

But  give  me  my  bent  bow  in  my  hand, 

And  a  broad  arrow  I  '11  let  flee  ; 

And  where  this  arrow  is  taken  up. 

There  shall  my  grave  digg'd  be. 

"  Lay  me  a  green  sod  under  my  head, 

And  another  at  my  feet ; 
And  lay  my  bent  bow  by  my  side, 


^^tr" 


26S 


TRobin  f)oo&'s  Bcatb  an&  JBurial 


Which  was  my  music  sweet ; 
And  make  my  gTa%-e  of  gravel  and  green. 
Which  is  most  right  and  meet. 

"  I^t  me  have  length  and  breadth  enough, 
With  a  green  sod  under  my  head  ; 

That  they  may  say  when  I  am  dead, 
Here  lies  bold  Robin  Hood." 


_;>     These  words  they  readily  promis'd  him, 
>.^^        Which  did  bold  Robin  please  ; 
^^.\.-i^r^     ^^jid  there  they  buried  bold  Robin  Hood, 
Near  to  the  fair  Kirkl^s.  • 


Sir  5amc0  tbc  IRose 


2G9 


Of  nil  the  Scottish  northern  chiefs, 

Of  hi^h  nn  i  warlike  name. 
The br  nest  was.  Sir  James  the  Rose, 
A  knii,ht  of  nieikle  fame. 
His  jjrowth  vas  as  the  tufted  fir, 

1  hit  crowns  the  mountain's  brow; 
And  wavin}j  o'er  his  shoulders  broad, 
His  locks  of  yellow  flow. 


*  See  Appendix. 


270 


Sir  5amcs  tbe  "Rose 


The  chieftain  of  the  brave  clan  Ross, 

A  firm  undaunted  band  ; 
Five  hundred  warriors  drew  the  sword, 

Beneath  his  high  command. 

In  bloody  fight  thrice  had  he  stood, 

Against  the  English  keen, 
Ere  two  and  twenty  opening  springs 

This  blooming  youth  had  seen. 

The  fair  Matilda  dear  he  loved, 

A  maid  of  beauty  rare  ; 
I-.v'u  Margaret  on  the  Scottish  throne 

Was  never  half  so  fair. 

I^ang  had  he  wooed,  lang  she  refused. 
With  seeming  scorn  and  pride  ; 

Yet  aft  her  eyes  confessed  the  love 
Her  fearful  words  denied. 

At  last  she  blessed  his  well-tried  faith. 

Allowed  his  tender  claim  : 
She  vowed  to  him  her  virgin  heart, 

And  owned  an  equal  flame. 

Her  father,  Buchan's  cruel  lord, 

Their  passion  disapproved ; 
And  bade  her  wed  Sir  John  the  Graeme, 

And  leave  the  youth  she  loved. 

At  nicht  they  m.et,  as  they  were  wont. 

Deep  in  a  shady  wood, 
Where,  on  a  bank  beside  the  bum, 

A  blooming  saugh-tree  stood. 

Concealed  among  the  underwood, 

The  crafty  Donald  lay. 
The  brother  of  Sir  John  the  Graeme, 

To  hear  what  they  would  say. 


Sir  5ames  tbe  TRose 


271 


When  thus  the  maid  began  :  "  My  sire 

Your  passion  disapproves, 
And  bids  me  wed  Sir  John  the  Graeme  ; 

So  here  must  end  our  loves. 

"  My  father's  will  must  be  obeyed  ; 

Nocht  boots  me  to  withstand  ; 
Some  fairer  maid,  in  beauty's  bloom, 

Must  bless  thee  with  her  hand. 

"  Matilda  soon  shall  be  forgot, 

And  from  thy  mind  eflfaced  : 
But  may  that  happiness  be  thine, 

Which  I  can  never  taste." 

"  What  do  I  hear  ?    Is  this  thy  vow  ?  " 

Sir  James  the  Rose  replied  : 
"And  will  Matilda  wed  the  Graeme, 

Though  sworn  to  be  my  bride  ? 

"  His  sword  shall  sooner  pierce  my  heart 
Than  reave  me  of  thy  charms  !  " 

Then  clasped  her  to  his  beating  breast. 
Fast  locked  into  his  arms. 

"  I  spake  to  try  thy  love,"  she  said  : 
"  I '11  ne'er  wed  man  but  thee  : 

My  grave  shall  be  my  bridal  bed, 
E)re  Graeme  my  husband  be. 

"Take  then,  dear  youth,  this  faithful  kiss. 

In  witness  of  my  troth  ; 
And  every  plague  become  my  lot, 

That  day  I  break  my  oath  !  " 

They  parted  thus  :  the  sun  was  set : 
Up  hasty  Donald  flies  ;  [youth  !  " 

And    "  Turn    thee,   turn    thee,    beardless 
He  loud  insulting  cries. 


272 


Sir  5ames  tbe  "Kose 


Soon  turned  about  the  fearless  chief, 

And  soon  his  sword  he  drew  ; 
For  Donald's  blade,  before  his  breast, 

Had  pierced  his  tartans  through. 

"  This  for  my  brother's  slighted  love ; 

His  wrongs  sit  on  my  arm." 
Three  paces  back  the  youth  retired, 

And  saved  himself  frae  harm. 

Returning  swift,  his  hand  he  reared 

Frae  Donald's  head  above. 
And  through  the  brain  and  crashing  bones 

His  sharp-edged  weapon  drove. 

!  le  staggering  reeled,  then  tumbled  down, 
A  lump  of  breathless  clay  : 
So  fall  my  foes  !  "  quoth  valiant  Rose, 
And  stately  strode  away. 

Through  the  green-wood  he  quickly  hied, 

Unto  IvOrd  Buchan's  hall ; 
And  at  Matilda's  window  stood. 

And  thus  began  to  call : 

"  Art  thou  asleep,  Matilda  dear  ? 

Awake,  my  love,  awake ! 
Thy  luckless  lover  on  thee  calls, 

A  long  farewell  to  take. 

"  For  I  have  slain  fierce  Donald  Graeme ; 

His  blood  is  on  my  sword  : 
And  distant  are  my  faithful  men, 

Nor  can  assist  their  lord. 

"  To  Skye  I  '11  now  direct  my  way. 

Where  my  two  brothers  bide. 
And  raise  the  valiant  of  the  Isles 

To  combat  on  my  side.' 


Sir  5ame0  tbe  IRose 


273 


"  O  do  not  so,"  the  maid  replies  ; 

"  With  me  till  morning  stay ; 
For  dark  and  dreary  is  the  night, 

And  dangerous  the  way. 

"  All  night  I  '11  watch  you  in  the  park ; 

My  faithful  page  I  '11  send, 
To  run  and  raise  the  Ross's  clan, 

Their  master  to  defend." 

Beneath  a  bush  he  laid  him  down. 
And  wrapped  him  in  his  plaid  ; 

While,  trembling  for  her  lover's  fate, 
At  distance  stood  the  maid. 

Swift  ran  the  page  o'er  hill  and  dale. 

Till,  in  a  lowly  glen. 
He  met  the  furious  Sir  John  Graeme, 

With  twenty  of  his  men. 

"  Where  go'st  thou,  little  page?  "  he  said 
"  So  late  who  did  thee  send?" 

"  I  go  to  raise  the  Ross's  clan. 
Their  master  to  defend  : 

"  For  he  hath  slain  Sir  Donald  Graeme  ; 

His  blood  is  on  his  sword : 
And  far,  far  distant  are  his  men, 

That  should  assist  their  lord." 

"And  has  he  slain  my  brother  dear  ?  " 
The  furious  Graeme  replies  : 

"  Dishonour  blast  my  name,  but  he 
By  me,  ere  morning  dies  ! 

Tell  me  where  is  Sir  James  the  Rose  ; 
I  will  thee  well  reward." 
He  sleeps  within  I^ord  Buchan's  park ; 
Matilda  is  his  guard." 


274 


Sir  5ames  tbe  "Kose 


They  spurred  their  steeds  in  furious  mood, 

And  scoured  along  the  lee  ; 
They  reached  I^rd  Buchan's  lofty  towers 

By  dawning  of  the  day. 

Matilda  stood  without  the  gate  ; 

To  whom  the  Graeme  did  say, 
"  Saw  ye  Sir  James  the  Rose  last  night  ? 

Or  did  he  pass  this  way  ?  " 

"  I,ast  day,  at  noon,"  Matilda  said, 
"  Sir  James  the  Rose  passed  by  : 

He  furious  pricked  his  sweaty  steed. 
And  onward  fast  did  hye. 

"By  this  he  is  at  Edinburgh, 

If  horse  and  man  hold  good." 
"Your  page,  then,  lied,  who  said  he  was 

Now  sleeping  in  the  wood." 

She  wrung  her  hands,  and  tore  her  hair : 
"Brave  Rose,  thou  art  betrayed  ; 

And  ruined  by  those  means,"  she  cried, 
"  From  whence  I  hoped  thine  aid  !  " 

By  this  the  valiant  knight  awoke  ; 

The  virgin's  shrieks  he  heard  ; 
And  up  he  rose,  and  drew  his  sword, 

"When  the  fierce  band  appeared 

"  Your  sword  last  night  my  brother  slew ; 

His  blood  yet  dims  its  shine  : 
And,  ere  the  setting  of  the  sun. 

Your  blood  shall  reek  on  mine." 

"  You  word  it  well,"  the  chief  replied  : 

"  But  deeds  approve  the  man  : 
Set  by  your  band,  and,  hand  to  hand, 

We  '11  try  what  valour  can. 


Sir  5amc0  tbe  TRose 


275 


"  Oft  boasting  hides  a  coward's  heart ; 

My  weighty  sword  you  fear, 
Which  shone  in  front  of  Flodden-field, 

When  you  kept  in  the  rear." 

With  dauntless  step  he  forward  strode, 

And  dared  him  to  the  fight : 
Then  Graeme  gave  back  and  feared  his  arm  ; 

For  well  he  knew  its  might. 

Four  of  his  men,  the  bravest  four, 
Sunk  down  beneath  his  sword  : 

But  still  he  scorned  the  poor  revenge, 
And  sought  their  haughty  lord. 

Behind  him  basely  came  the  Graeme, 

And  pierced  him  in  the  side  : 
Out  spouting  came  the  purple  tide. 

And  all  his  tartans  dyed. 

But  yet  his  sword  quat  not  the  grip, 

Nor  dropt  he  to  the  ground, 
Till  through  his  enemy's  heart  his  steel 

Had  forced  a  mortal  wound. 

Graeme,  like  a  tree  with  wind  o'erthrown, 

Fell  breathless  on  the  clay  ; 
And  down  beside  him  sank  the  Rose, 

And  faint  and  dying  lay. 

The  sad  Matilda  saw  him  fall : 
"  Oh,  spare  his  life  !  "  she  cried  ; 

"  I^rd  Buchan's  daughter  begs  his  life ; 
I^et  her  not  be  denied  !  " 

Her  well-known  voice  the  hero  heard  ; 

He  raised  his  death-closed  eyes. 
And  fixed  them  on  the  weeping  maid, 

And  weakly  thus  replies ; 


276 


Sir  5amc0  tbe  "Roac 


"  In  vain  Matilda  begfs  the  life 

By  death's  arrest  denied  : 
My  race  is  run — adieu,  my  love  " — 

Then  closed  his  eyes  and  died. 

The  sword,  yet  warm,  fix)m  his  left  side 

With  frantic  hand  she  drew  : 
"  I  come,  Sir  James  the  Rose,"  she  cried  ; 

"  I  come  to  follow  you  ! ' ' 

She  leaned  the  hilt  against  the  ground, 
And  bared  her  snowy  breast ; 

Then  fell  upon  her  lover's  face. 
And  sunk  to  endless  rest. 


tibe  Clerft'0  ZTwa  Sons 


277 


TH^  CI^ERK'S  TWA  SONS 

o'  owse:nford.* 

O  I  will  sing  to  you  a  sang, 
Will  grieve  your  heart  full  sair ; 

How  the  Clerk's  twa  sons  o"  Owsenford 
Have  to  learn  some  unco  lear. 

They  hadna  been  in  fair  Parish 

A  twelvemonth  and  a  day, 
Till  the  Clerk's  twa  sons  fell  deep  in  love 

Wi'  the  Mayor's  dauchters  twae. 


*  See  Appendix. 


278 


Cbe  ClcvWs  XTwa  Sons 


And  aye  as  the  twa  clerks  sat  and  wrote, 

The  ladies  sewed  and  sang ; 
There  was  mair  mirth  in  that  chamber, 

Than  in  a'  fair  Ferrol's  land. 
But  word  's  gane  to  the  michty  Mayor, 

As  he  sailed  on  the  sea, 
That  the  Clerk's  twa  sons  made  lichtlemans 

O'  his  fair  dauchters  twae. 
' '  If  they  hae  wranged  my  twa  dauchters, 

Janet  and  Marjorie, 
The  mom,  ere  I  taste  meat  or  drink. 

Hie  hangfit  they  shall  be." 
And  word  's  gane  to  the  Clerk  himself. 

As  he  was  drinking  wine. 
That  his  twa  sons  at  fair  Parish 

Were  bound  in  prison  Strang. 

Then  up  and  spak  the  Clerk's  ladye, 

And  she  spak  tenderlie  : 
"  O  tak  wi'  ye  a  purse  o'  gowd, 

Or  even  tak  j'e  three  ; 
And  if  ye  canna  get  "William, 

Bring  Henry  hame  to  me." 
O  sweetly  sang  the  nightingale, 

As  she  sat  on  the  wand  ; 
But  sair,  sair  mourned  Owsenford, 

As  he  gaed  in  the  strand. 
When  he  came  to  their  prison  Strang, 

He  rade  it  round  about. 
And  at  a  little  shot-window, 

His  sons  were  looking  out. 
"  O  lie  ye  there,  my  sons,"  he  said, 

"  For  owsen  or  for  kye  ? 
Or  what  is  it  that  ye  lie  for, 

Sae  sair  bound  as  ye  lie?  " 


XLbc  ClctWs  XLvo^  Sons 


279 


"  We  lie  not  here  for  owsen,  father ; 

Nor  yet  do  we  for  kye  ; 
But  it 's  for  a  little  o'  dear-boucht  love, 

Sae  sair  bound  as  we  lie. 


"Oh,  borrow  us,  borrow  us,  father,"  they 
"  For  the  luve  we  bear  to  thee  !  "       [said, 

"  O  never  fear,  my  pretty  sons, 
Weel  borrowed  ye  sail  be." 

Then  he  's  gane  to  the  michty  Mayor, 

And  he  spak  courteouslie  : 
"  Will  ye  grant  my  twa  sons'  lives, 

Either  for  gold  or  fee  ? 
Or  will  ye  be  sae  gude  a  man, 

As  grant  them  baith  to  me  ? ' ' 

"  I  '11  no  grant  ye  your  twa  sons'  lives, 

Neither  for  gold  nor  fee  ; 
Nor  will  I  be  sae  gude  a  man. 

As  gie  them  baith  to  thee ; 
But  before  the  mom  at  twal  o'clock. 

Ye  '11  see  them  hangit  hie  ! ' ' 

Ben  it  came  the  Mayor's  dauchters, 

Wi'  kirtle  coat,  alone ; 
Their  eyes  did  sparkle  like  the  gold. 

As  they  tripped  on  the  stone. 

"  Will  ye  gie  us  our  loves,  father. 

For  gold,  or  yet  for  fee  ? 
Or  will  ye  take  our  own  sweet  lives 

And  let  our  true  loves  be  ?  " 


He  's  taen  a  whip  into  his  hand. 
And  lashed  them  wondrous  sair : 

"  Gae  to  your  bowers,  ye  vile  limmers ; 
Ye  'se  never  see  them  mair." 


28o 


Zbc  ClcvWs  tTwa  Sons 


Then  out  it  speaks  auld  Owsenford, 

A  sorry  man  was  he  : 
"  Gang  to  your  bouirs,  ye  lilye  flouirs ; 

For  a'  this  maunna  be." 

Then  out  it  speaks  him  Hynde  Henry : 

"  Come  here,  Janet,  to  me  ; 
"Will  ye  gie  me  my  faith  and  troth, 

And  love,  as  I  gae  thee  ?  ' ' 

"  Ye  sail  hae  your  faith  and  troth, 
Wi'  God's  blessing  and  mine." 

And  twenty  times  she  kissed  his  mouth, 
Her  father'looking  on. 

Then  out  it  speaks  him  gay  William : 

"  Come  here,  sweet  Marjorie  ; 
Will  ye  gie  me  my  faith  and  troth, 
And  love,  as  I  gae  thee  ?  " 

"Yes,  ye  sail  hae  your  faith  and  troth, 
Wi'  God's  blessing  and  mine." 

And  twenty  times  she  kissed  his  mouth, 
Her  father  looking  on. 

"  O  ye  '11  take  afFyour  twa  black  hats, 

I^ay  them  down  on  a  stone. 
That  nane  may  ken  that  ye  are  clerks. 

Till  j^e  are  putten  doun." 

The  bonnie  clerks  they  died  that  mom  ; 

Their  loves  died  lang  ere  noon  ; 
And  the  waefu'  Clerk  o'  Owsenford 

To  his  lady  has  gane  hame. 

His  lady  sat  on  her  castle  wa', 

Beholding  dale  and  doun  ; 
And  there  she  saw  her  ain  glide  lord 

Come  walking  to  the  toun. 


Zbc  ClcvWe  tTwa  Sons 


281 


"  Ye  're  welcome  hame,  my  ain  gude  lord, 

Ye  're  welcome  hame  to  me  ; 
But  where-away  are  my  twa  sons  ? 

Ye  suld  hae  brought  them  wi'  ye." 

"  O  they  are  putten  to  a  deeper  lear, 

And  to  a  higher  scule  : 
Your  ain  twa  sons  will  no  be  hame 

Till  the  hallow  days  o'  Yule." 

"  Oh  sorrow,  sorrow,  come  mak  my  bed  ; 

And,  dule,  come  lay  me  doun  ; 
For  I  will  neither  eat  nor  drink, 

Nor  set  a  fit  on  groun' ! " 

The  hallow  days  o'  Yule  were  come. 
And  the  nights  were  lang  and  mirk, 

When  in  and  cam  her  ain  twa  sons. 
And  their  hats  made  o'  the  birk. 

It  neither  grew  in  syke  nor  ditch. 

Nor  yet  in  ony  sheuch  ; 
But  at  the  gates  o'  Paradise 

That  birk  grew  fair  eneuch. 

"Blow  up  the  fire,  now,  maidens  mine. 

Bring  water  from  the  well ; 
For  a'  my  house  shall  feast  this  night, 

Since  my  twa  sons  are  well. 

"  O  eat  and  drink,  my  merry-men  a'. 

The  better  shall  ye  fare  ; 
For  my  two  sons  they  are  come  hame 

To  me  for  evermair." 

And  she  has  gane  and  made  their  bed, 

She  's  made  it  saft  and  fine  ; 
And  she  's  happit  them  wi'  her  gay  mantil. 

Because  they  were  her  ain. 


282 


Xihc  Glerfe's  ^wa  Sons 


But  the  5'oung  cock  crew  in  merry  I,inkum, 
And  the  wild  fowl  chirped  for  day ; 

And  the  aulder  to  the  younger  said, 
"Brother,  we  maun  away. 

"The  cock  doth  craw,  the  day  doth  daw. 
The  channerin  worm  doth  chide  ; 

Gin  we  be  missed  out  o'  our  place, 
A  sair  pain  we  maun  bide.'' 

"  I,ie  still,  lie  still  a  little  wee  while, 

I,ie  still  but  if  we  may  ; 
Gin  my  mother  miss  us  when  she  wakes, 

She  '11  gae  mad  ere  it  be  day." 


O  it 's  they  've  taen  up  their  mother's  mantil. 

And  they  've  hung  it  on  a  pin  : 
"  O  lang  may  ye  hing,  mj'  mother's  mantil, 

Ere  ye  hap  us  again.'' 


Sir  BnDrew  :©arton 


283 


When  Flora  with  her  fragrant 
flowers 
Bedecktthe  earth  so  trim  and 
Raye, 
And  Neptune  with  his  daintye 
showers, 
Came  to  present  the  monthe 
of  Maye ; 
King  Henrye  rode  to  take  the 
ayre. 
Over  the  river  of  Thames  past 
hee  ; 
When  eighty  merchants  of  Lon- 
don came. 
And  downe  they  knelt  upon 
their  knee. 


*  See  Appendix. 


284 


Sir  anDrcw  JBarton 


"  O  yee  are  welcome,  rich  merch^ts  ; 

Good  saylors,  welcome  unto  mee."     [good, 
They  swore  by  the  rood,  they  were  saylors 

But  rich  merch^ts  they  cold  not  bee  : 
"  To  France  nor  Flanders  dare  we  pass  : 

Nor  Bourdeaux  voyage  dare  we  fare  ; 
And  all  for  a  rover  that  lyes  on  the  seas, 

Who  robbs  us  of  our  merchant  ware." 

King  Henrye  frownd,  and  turned  him  rounde, 

And  swore  by  the  I^ord,  that  was  mickle  of 
might, 
"I  thought  he  had  not  bcene  in  the  world, 

Durst  have  wrought  England  such  unright." 
The  merchants  sighed,  and  said,  "  Alas  !  " 

And  thus  they  did  their  answer  frame, 
"  He  is  a  proud  Scott,  that  robbs  on  the  seas, 

And  Sir  Andrew  Barton  is  his  name." 

The  king  lookt  over  his  left  should^, 
And  an  angrye  look  then  looked  hee  : 
Have  I  never  a  lorde  in  all  my  realme, 
Will  feitch  yond  traytor  unto  mee?  " 

"  Yea,  that  dare  I  "  ;  Lord  Howard  sayes  ; 
"  Yea,  that  dare  I  with  heart  and  hand ; 

If  it  please  your  grace  to  give  me  leave, 
Myselfe  wil  be  the  only  man." 

"  Thou  art  but  yong  "  ;  the  kyng  replyed  : 

' '  Yond  Scott  hath  numbred  many e  a  yeare.  * ' 
"  Trust  me,  my  liege.  He  make  him  quail. 

Or  before  my  prince  I  will  never  appeare." 
"Then  bowemen  and  gunners  thou  shalt  have 

And  chuse  them  over  my  realme  so  free  ; 
Besides  good  mariners,  and  shipp-boyes, 

To  guide  the  great  shipp  on  the  sea." 


Sir  anOrcw  JSarton 


285 


The  first  man,  that  I^rd  Howard  chose, 

Was  the  ablest  gunner  in  all  the  realm, 
Thoughe  he  was  threescore  yeeres  and  ten  ; 

Good  Peter  Simon  was  his  name. 
"  Peter,"  sais hee,  "  I  must  to  the  sea, 

To  bring  home  a  traytor  live  or  dead  : 
Before  all  others  I  have  chosen  thee  ; 

Of  a  hundred  gunners  to  be  the  head." 

"  If  you,  my  lord,  have  chosen  mee 

Of  a  hundred  gunners  to  be  the  head, 
Then  hang  me  up  on  your  maine-mast  tree, 

If  I  misse  my  marke  one  shilling  bread." 
My  lord  then  chose  a  boweman  rare, 

Whose  active  hands  had  gained  fame  ; 
In  Yorkshire  was  this  gentleman  borne, 

And  William  Horseley  was  his  name. 

"  Horseley,"  sayd  he,  "  I  must  with  speede 

Go  seeke  a  traytor  on  the  sea  ; 
And  now  of  a  hundred  bowemen  brave. 

To  be  the  head  I  have  chosen  thee." 
"  If  you,"  quoth  hee,  "  have  chosen  mee 

Of  a  hundred  bowemen  to  be  the  head ; 
On  your  main-mist  He  hanged  bee, 

If  I  miss  twelvescore  one  penny  bread." 

With  pikes  and  gunnes,  and  bowemen  bold, 

This  noble  Howard  is  gone  to  the  sea  ; 
With  a  valyant  heart  and  a  pleasant  cheare. 

Out  at  Thames  mouth  sayled  he. 
And  days  he  scant  had  sayled  three. 

Upon  the  "  voyage,"  he  tooke  in  hand, 
But  there  he  mett  with  a  noble  shipp, 

And  stoutely  made  itt  stay  and  stand. 

"Thou  must  tell  me,"  I,ord  Howard  said, 
' '  Now  who  thou  art,  and  what 's  thy  name ; 


OF  THK 

UNIVERSITY 


286 


Sir  Bn&rcw  JBarton 


^^ 


^-. 


r 


And  shewe  me  where  thy  dwelling  is  : 
And  whither  bound,  and  whence  thou  came.' 

"  My  name  is  Henry  Hunt,"  quoth  hee, 
With  a  heavj'e  heart,  and  a  carefull  mind  ; 

"  I  and  my  shipp  doe  both  belong 
To  the  Newcastle,  that  stands  upon  Tyne.' 

"  Hast  thou  not  heard,  nowe,  Henry  Hunt, 

As  thou  hast  sayled  by  daye  and  by  night. 
Of  a  Scottish  rover  on  the  seas  ; 

Men  call  him  Sir  Andrew  Barton,  knight? ' 
Then  ever  he  sighed,  and  sayd,  "  Alas  ! 

With  a  grieved  mind,  and  well  away  ! 
But  over-well  I  knowe  that  wight, 

I  was  his  prisoner  yesterday. 

"As  I  was  say  ling  upon  the  sea, 

A  Burdeaux  voyage  for  to  fare ; 
To  his  hachborde  he  clasped  me, 

And  robd  me  of  all  my  merchant  ware  ; 
And  mickle  debts,  God  wot,  I  owe, 

And  every  man  will  have  his  owne  ; 
And  I  am  nowe  to  I^ondon  bounde. 

Of  our  gracious  king  to  beg  a  boone." 

"  That  shall  not  need,"  I^ord  Howard  sais ; 

"I<ett  me  but  once  that  robber  see, 
For  every  penny  tane  thee  froe 

It  shall  be  doubled  shillings  three." 
"Nowe  God  forefend,"  the  merchant  said, 

"  That  you  shold  seek  soe  far  amisse  ! 
God  keepe  you  out  of  that  traitor  "s  hands  ! 

Full  litle  ye  wott  what  a  man  hee  is. 

"  Hee  is  brasse  within,  and  Steele  without, 
With  beames  on  his  topcastle  stronge ; 

And  eighteen  pieces  of  ordinance 
He  carries  on  each  side  along : 


Sir  Bn^rew  JSarton  287 

And  lie  hath  a  pinnace  deerlye  dight, 
St.  Andrew's  crosse  that  is  his  guide  ; 

His  pinnace  beareth  ninescore  men, 
And  fifteen  canons  on  each  side. 

"  Were  ye  twentye  shippes,  and  he  but  one  , 

I  sweare  by  kirke,  and  bower,  and  hall ; 
He  wold  overcome  them  everye  one, 

If  once  his  beames  they  doe  downe  fall." 
"  This  is  cold  comfort,"  sais  my  lord, 

"  To  wellcome  a  stranger  thus  to  the  sea  : 
Yet  He  bring  him  and  his  shipp  to  shore, 

Or  to  Scottland  hee  shall  carrye  mee." 

Then  a  noble  gunner  you  must  have, 
And  he  must  aim  well  with  his  ee, 
%  And  sinke  his  pinnace  into  the  sea. 
Or  else  hee  never  orecome  will  bee  : 
.nd  if  you  chance  his  shipp  to  borde. 
This  counsel  I  must  give  withall, 
Let  no  man  to  his  topcastle  goe 
To  strive  to  let  his  beams  downe  fall. 

"And  seven  pieces  of  ordinance, 

I  pray  your  honour  lend  to  mee, 
On  each  side  of  my  shipp  along. 

And  I  will  lead  you  on  the  sea. 
A  glasse  He  sett,  that  may  be  scene, 

Whether  you  sayle  by  day  or  night : 
And  to-morrowe,  I  sweare,  by  nine  of  the 
clocke. 

You  shall  meet  with  Sir  Andrew  Barton, 
knight." 

The  merchant  sett  my  lorde  a  glasse 

Soe  well  apparent  in  his  sight. 
And  on  the  morrowe,  by  nine  of  the  clocke, 

He  shewed  him  Sir  Andrew  Barton,  knight. 


288 


Sir  Bn&rew  JSarton 


His  hacheborde  it  was  "gilt  "  with  gold, 
Soe  deerlye  dight  it  dazzled  the  ee  : 

"  Nowe  by  my  faith,"  I^ord  Howard  sais, 
"  This  is  a  gallant  sight  to  see. 

"  Take  in  your  ancyents,  standards  eke, 
_-=v  ^^  So  close  that  no  man  may  them  see  ; 

"  '  '^'^^^  -^^^^  P"t  me  forth  a  white  willowe  wand, 

As  merchants  used  to  sayle  the  sea." 
But  they  stirred  neither  top,  nor  mast ; 

Stoutly  they  past  Sir  Andrew  by. 
' '  What  English  churles  are  yonder, ' '"  he  sayd, 
"  That  can  soe  litle  curtesye  ?  " 

"  Nowe  by  the  roode,  three  yeares  and  more 

I  have  beene  admirall  over  the  sea  ; 
And  never  an  English  nor  Portingall 

Without  my  leave  can  passe  this  way." 
Then  called  he  forth  his  stout  pinnace  ; 

"  Fetch  backe  yond  pedlars  nowe  to  mee  : 
I  sweare  by  the  masse,  yon  English  churls 

Shall  all  hang  att  my  maine-mast  tree." 

With  that  the  pinnace  itt  shott  oflF, 

Full  well  IfOrd  Howard  might  it  ken  ; 
For  itt  stroke  down  my  lord's  fore  mast, 

And  killed  fourteen  of  his  men. 
"Come  hither,  Simon,"  sayes  my  lord. 

"  I,ooke  that  thy  word  be  true,  thou  said ; 
For  at  my  maine-mast  thou  shalt  hang, 

If  thou  misse  thy  marke  one  shilling  bread. " 

Simon  was  old,  but  his  heart  itt  was  bold. 

His  ordinance  he  laid  right  lowe  ; 
He  put  in  chaine  full  nine  yardes  long. 

With  other  great  shott  lesse  and  moe  ; 
And  he  lette  goe  his  great  gunnes  shott : 

Soe  well  he  settled  it  with  his  ee. 


Sir  BnDrcw  :©arton 


289 


The  first  sight  that  Sir  Andrew  sawe, 

He  see  his  pinnace  sunke  in  the  sea. 
And  when  he  saw  his  pinnace  sunke, 

lyOrd,  how  his  heart  with  rage  did  swell ! 
"  Nowe  cutt  my  ropes,  itt  is  time  to  be  gon  ; 

He  fetch  yond  pedlars  backe  mysell." 
When  my  I,ord  sawe  Sir  Andrew  loose, 

Within  his  heart  hee  was  full  faine  : 
"  Nowe   spread  your    ancyents,    strike   up 
drummes, 

Sound  all  your  trumpetts  out  amaine." 

"  Fight  on,  my  men,"  Sir  Andrew  sais, 

"  Weale  howsoever  this  g-eere  will  sway  ; 
Itt  is  my  lord  admirall  of  E;ngl3.nd, 

Is  come  to  seek  mee  on  the  sea." 
Simon  had  a  sonne,  who  shott  right  well, 

That  did  Sir  Andrew  mickle  scare  ; 
In  att  his  decke  he  gave  a  shott. 

Killed  threescore  of  his  men  of  warre. 

Then  Henry  Hunt  with  rigour  hott 

Came  bravely  on  the  other  side, 
Soone  he  drove  down  his  fore-mast  tree, 

And  killed  fourscore  men  beside. 
"  Nowe,  out  alas ! "  Sir  Andrew  cryed, 

"  What  may  a  man  now  thinke,  or  say? 
Yonder  merchant  theefe,  that  pierceth  mee, 

He  was  my  prisoner  yesterday. 
"  Come  hither  to  me,  thou  Gordon  good. 

That  aye  wast  readye  att  my  call ; 
I  will  give  thee  three  hundred  markes, 

If  thou  wilt  let  my  beames  downe  fall." 
lyord  Howard  hee  then  calld  in  haste, 

"  Horseley,  see  thou  be  true  in  stead  ; 
For  thou  shalt  at  the  maine-mast  hang. 

If  thou  misse  twelvescore  one  penny  bre^d." 


290 


Sic  Bn^rew  JSarton 


r-,-^^ 


Then  Gordon  swarved  the  maine-mast  tree. 

He  swarved  it  with  might  and  maine  ; 
But  Horseley  with  a  bearing  arrowe, 

Stroke  the  Gordon  through  the  braine  ; 
And  he  fell  unto  the  haches  again, 

And  sore  his  deadlye  wounde  did  bleede  : 
Then    word    went   through    Sir    Andrew's 
men, 

How  that  the  Gordon  hee  was  dead, 

"  Come  hither  to  mee,  James  Hambilton, 

Thou  art  my  only  sister's  Sonne, 
If  thou  wilt  let  my  beames  downe  fall, 

Six  hundred  nobles  thou  hast  wonne." 
With  that  he  swarved  the  maine-mast  tree, 

He  swarved  it  with  nimble  art ; 
But  Horseley  with  a  broad  arr6we 

Pierced  the  Hambilton  thorough  the  heart : 

And  downe  he  fell  upon  the  deck. 

That  with  his  blood  did  streame  amaine  : 
Then  every  Scott  cryed,  "  WeU-away  ! 

Alas,  a  comelye  youth  is  slaine !  " 
All  woe  begone  was  Sir  Andrew  then. 

With  griefe  and  rage  his  heart  did  swell : 
"  Go  fetch  me  forth  my  armour  of  proofe, 

For  I  will  to  the  topcastle  mysell. 

"  Goe  fetch  me  forth  my  armour  of  proofe ; 

That  gilded  is  with  gold  soe  cleare  : 
God  be  with  my  brother  John  of  Barton  ! 

Against  the  Portingalls  hee  it  ware  ; 
And  when  he  had  on  this  armour  of  proofe, 

He  was  a  gallant  sight  to  see  : 
Ah  !  nere  didst  thou  meet  with  living  wight, 

My  deere  brother,  could  cope  with  thee." 


Sir  Bn^rew  JBarton 


2gi 


"  Come  hither,  Horseley,"  sayes  my  lord, 

"  And  looke  your  shaft  that  itt  goe  right, 
Shoot  a  good  shoote  in  time  of  need, 

And  for  it  thou  shalt  be  made  a  knight." 
"  He  shoot  my  best,"  quoth  Horseley  then, 

"Your  honour  shall  see,  with  might  and 
maine : 
But  if  I  were  hanged  at  your  maine-mast, 

I  have  now  left  but  arrowes  twaine." 

Sir  Andrew  he  did  swarve  the  tree, 

With  right  good  will  he  swarved  then  : 
Upon  his  breast  did  Horseley  hitt. 

But  the  arrow  bounded  back  agen. 
Then  Horseley  spyed  a  privye  place 
//     With  a  perfect  eye  in  a  secrette  part ; 
^>  Under  the  spole  of  his  right  arme 
/^      He  smote  Sir  Andrew  to  the  heart. 

~    "  Fight  on,  my  men,"  Sir  Andrew  sayes, 

"  A  little  Ime  hurt,  but  yett  not  slaine  ; 
He  but  lye  downe  and  bleede  a  while, 

And  then  He  rise  and  fight  againe. 
Fight  on,  my  men,"  Sir  Andrew  sayes, 

"  And  never  flinche  before  the  foe  ; 
And  stand  fast  by  St.  Andrew's  crosse 

Untill  you  heare  my  whistle  blowe." 

They  never  heard  his  whistle  blow. 

Which  made  their  hearts  waxe  sore  ad  read . 
Then  Horseley  said,  "  Aboard,  my  lord. 

For  well  I  wott  Sir  Andrew  's  dead." 
They  boarded  then  his  noble  shipp, 

They  boarded  it  with  might  and  maine  ; 
Eighteen  score  Scotts  alive  they  found, 

The  rest  were  either  maim'd  or  slaine. 


'^^^^y^r 


292  Sir  Bn&rcw  3Barton 


I/jrd  Howard  tooke  a  sword  in  hand, 

And  oflf  he  smote  Sir  Andrew's  head, 
"  I  must  have  left  England  many  a  daye, 

If  thou  wert  alive  as  thou  art  dead." 
He  caused  his  body  to  be  cast 

Over  the  hatchbord  into  the  sea, 
And  about  his  middle  three  hundred  crownes : 

"  Wherever  thou  land  this  will  bury  thee." 

Thus  from  the  warres  Lord  Howard  came, 

And  backe  he  sayled  ore  the  maine, 
With  mickle  joy  and  triumphing 

Into  Thames  mouth  he  came  againe. 
I/)rd  Howard  then  a  letter  wrote, 

And  sealed  it  with  scale  and  ring  ; 
"  Such  a  noble  prize  have  I  brought  to  your  grace 

As  never  did  subject  to  a  king  : 

"  Sir  Andrew's  shipp  I  bring  with  mee  ; 

A  braver  shipp  was  never  none  : 
Nowe  hath  your  grace  two  shipps  of  warr, 

Before  in  England  was  but  one." 
King  Henryes  grace  with  royall  cheere 

Welcomed  the  noble  Howard  home, 
•'And  where,"  said  he,  "  is  the  rover  stout. 

That  I  myselfe  may  give  the  doome?  " 

"  The  rover,  he  is  safe,  my  leige, 

Full  many  a  fadom  in  the  sea  ; 
If  he  were  alive  as  he  is  dead, 

I  must  have  left  England  many  a  day  : 
And  your  grace  may  thank  four  men  i'  the  ship 

For  the  victory  wee  have  wonne, 
These  are  William  Horseley,  Henry  Hunt, 

And  Peter  Simon,  and  his  Sonne." 


Sir  BnDrcw  JSarton 


293 


To  Henry  Hunt,  the  king  then  sayd, 

"  In  lieu  of  what  was  from  thee  tane, 
A  noble  a  day  now  thou  shalt  have, 

Sir  Andrew's  jewels  and  his  chayne. 
And  Horseley  thou  shalt  be  a  knight, 

And  lands  and  livings  shalt  have  store  ; 
Howard  shall  be  Erie  Surrye  hight, 

As  Howards  erst  have  beene  before. 


"  Nowe,  Peter  Simon,  thou  art  old, 

I  will  maintaine  thee  and  thy  sonne  : 
And  the  men  shall  have  five  hundred  markes 

For  the  good  service  they  have  done." 
Then  in  came  the  queene  with  ladyes  fair 

To  see  Sir  Andrew  Barton,  knight ; 
They  weend  that  hee  were  brought  on  shore, 

And  thought  to  have  seen  a  gallant  sight. 

But  when  they  see  his  deadlye  face, 

And  eyes  soe  hollow  in  his  head, 
"  I  wold  give,"  quoth  the  king,  "a  thousand 
markes, 

This  man  were  alive  as  hee  is  dead  : 
Yett  for  the  manfull  part  hee  playd, 

Which  fought  soe  well  with  heart  and  hand, 
His  men  shall  have  twelvepence  a  day. 

Till  they  come  to  my  brother  kings  high 
land," 


294 


3f rennet  l)aU 


FR^NNKT  HAI,!,  * 

-^  When  Frennet's  Castle  ivied  walls 
Through  yellow  leaves  were  seen  ; 
When  birds  forsook  the  sapless  boughs, 
And  bees  the  faded  sreen ; 


See  Appendix. 


Ifrennct  Iball 


295 


Then  X,ady  Frennet,  vengefu'  dame, 

Did  wander  frae  the  ha', 
To  the  wide  forest's  dewie  gloom, 

Among  the  leaves  that  fa*. 


Her  page,  the  swiftest  of  her  train, 

Had  dumb  a  lofty  tree, 
Whase  branches  to  the  angry  blast 

Were  soughing  mournfullie. 

He  turn'd  his  een  towards  the  path 

That  near  the  castle  lay, 
"Where  good  I^ord  John  and  Rothiemay 

Were  riding  down  the  brae. 


Swift  darts  the  eagle  through  the  sky. 
When  prey  beneath  is  seen  : 

As  quickly  he  forgot  his  hold. 
And  perch 'd  upon  the  green. 


"  O  hie  thee,  hie  thee,  lady  gay, 

Frae  this  dark  wood  awa'  ! 
Some  visitors  of  gallant  mein 
^        Are  hasting  to  the  ha'." 


Then  round  she  row'd  her  silken  plaid. 

Her  feet  she  did  na  spare, 
Until  she  left  the  forest's  skirts 

A  long  bow-shot  and  mair. 


O  where,  O  where,  my  good  I^ord  John, 
O  tell  me  where  ye  ride  ? 


296 


yrcnnet  f)aU 


Within  my  castle- wall  this  nicht 
I  hope  ye  mean  to  bide. 


W^L/// 


"  Kind  nobles,  will  ye  but  alicht, 
In  yonder  bower  to  stay, 

Soft  ease  shall  teach  you  to  forget 
The  hardness  of  the  way." 


"  Forbear  entreaty,  gentle  dame, 

How  can  we  here  remain  ? 
Full  well  you  know  your  husband  deir 

Was  by  our  father  slain  : 

"  The  thoughts  of  which  with  fell  revenge, 

Within  your  bosom  swell : 
Knraged  you  've  sworn  that  blood  for  blood 

Should  this  black  passion  quell." 


"  O  fear  not,  fear  not,  good  Lord  John, 

That  I  will  you  betray, 
Or  sue  requital  for  a  debt 

Which  Nature  cannot  pay. 


"  Bear  witness  a'  ye  powers  on  high  ! 

Ye  lichts  that  'gin  to  shine  ! 
This  nicht  shall  prove  the  sacred  cord 

That  knits  your  faith  and  mine." 


The  lady  slie,  with  honey  d  words. 
Enticed  the  youths  to  stay  ; 

But  morning  sun  ne'er  shone  upon 
Ivord  John  and  Rothiemay. 


jfrennct  1balL 


297 


298 


tiing  Bstmere 


KING  ESTMERE.* 

Hearken  to  me,  gentlemen, 

Come  and  you  shall  heare ; 
He  tell  you  of  two  of  the  boldest  brethren 

That  ever  borne  y-were. 

The  tone  of  them  was  Adler  younge, 
The  tother  was  King  Estmere  ; 

They  were  as  bolde  men  in  their  deeds, 
As  any  were  farr  and  neare. 


ftfng  Bstmere 


299 


As  they  were  drinking  ale  and  wine 

"Within  King  Bstmeres  halle  ; 
"  When  will  ye  marry  a  wyfe,  brother, 

A  wyfe  to  glad  us  all?  " 

Then  bespake  him  King  E)stmere, 

And  answered  him  hastilee  : 
"  I  know  not  that  ladye  in  any  land 

That 's  able  to  marrye  with  mee." 

"  King  Adland  hath  a  daughter,  brother, 
Men  call  her  bright  and  sheene  ; 

If  I  were  king  here  in  your  stead, 
That  ladye  shold  be  my  queene." 

Sales,  "  Reade  me,  reade  me,  deare  brother, 

Throughout  merry  England, 
Where  we  might  find  a  messenger. 

Betwixt  us  towe  to  sende." 

Saies,  ' '  You  shal  ryde  yourselfe,  broths. 

He  beare  you  companye  ; 
Many  throughe  fals  messengers  are  deceived, 

And  I  feare  lest  soe  shold  wee." 

Thus  the  renisht  them  to  ryde 

Of  twoe  good  renisht  steeds, 
And  when  they  came  to  King  Adlands  halle. 

Of  redd  gold  shone  their  weeds. 

And  when  they  came  to  King  Adlands  hall, 

Before  the  goodlye  gate. 
There  they  found  good  King  Adia,nd 

Rearing  himselfe  thereatt. 

"  Now  Christ  thee  save,  good  King  Adldnd; 

Now  Christ  you  save  and  see," 
Sayd,  "You  be  welcome.  King  i^stmere, 

Right  hartilye  to  mee." 


300 


•Ring  Estmcre 


"  You  have  a  daughter,"  said  Ad'Jer  younge, 
"  Men  call  her  bright  and  sheene, 

My  brother  wold  marrye  her  to  his  wiffe, 
Of  Englande  to  be  queene." 

"  Yesterday  was  att  my  deere  daughter 

Syr  Bremor  the  Kyng  of  Spayne  ; 
And  then  she  nicked  him  of  naye, 

And  I  doubt  sheele  do  you  the  same." 
"  The  King  of  Spayne  is  a  foule  paynim, 

And  'leeveth  on  Mahound  ; 
And  pitye  it  were  that  fayre  ladyS 

Shold  marrye  a  heathen  hound. 
"  But  grant  to  me,"  sayes  King  Estmere, 

"  For  mj'  love  I  you  praye  ; 
That  I  may  see  your  daughter  deere, 

Before  I  goe  hence  awaye." 
"Although  itt  is  seven  yeers  and  more 

Since  my  daughter  was  in  halle, 
She  shall  come  once  downe  for  your  sake, 

To  glad  my  g^estfe  alle." 
Downe  then  came  that  mayden  fa3Te,  . 

With  ladyes  laced  in  pall, 
And  halfe  a  hundred  of  bold  knightes. 

To  bring  her  from  bowre  to  hall ; 
And  as  many  gentle  squiers. 

To  tend  upon  them  all. 
The  talents  of  golde  were  on  her  head  sette, 

Hanged  low  downe  to  her  knee  ; 
And  everye  ring  on  her  small  finger 

Shone  of  the  chrystall  free. 
Saies,  "  God  you  save,  my  deere  mad^m  " ; 

Saies,  "  God  you  save  and  see." 
Said,  "  Y'ou  be  welcome.  King  Estmere, 

Kight  welcome  unto  mee. 


fkuxQ  jBetmcxc 


301 


"  And  if  you  love  me  as  you  saye, 

Soe  well  and  hartilee, 
All  that  ever  you  are  comen  about 

Soone  sped  now  itt  shal  be." 

Then  bespake  her  father  deare  : 

"  My  daughter,  I  saye  naye  ; 
Remember  well  the  King  of  Spayne, 

What  he  sayd  yesterdaye. 

"  He   would   pull   downe   my   halles  and 
And  reave  me  of  my  lyfe,  [castles, 

I  cannot  blame  him  if  he  doe, 
If  I  reave  him  of  his  wyfe." 

II  "'Your  castles  and  your  towres,  father, 
v\;|      Are  stronglye  built  aboute  ; 

And  therefore  of  the  King  of  Spayne 
Wee  neede  not  stande  in  doubt. 

"  Plightme  your  troth,  nowe,  KingEstra^re, 
By  heaven  and  your  righte  hand. 

That  you  will  marrye  me  to  your  wyfe, 
And  make  me  queene  of  your  land." 

Then  King  Estmere  he  plight  his  troth 
By  heaven  and  his  righte  hand, 

That  he  wolde  marrye  her  to  his  wyfe. 
And  make  her  queene  of  his  land. 

And  he  tooke  leave  of  that  ladye  fayre. 

To  goe  to  his  owne  countree, 
To  fetche  him  dukes  andlordes  and  knightes. 

That  married  the'y  might  bee. 

They  had  not  ridden  scant  a  myle, 

A  myle  forthe  of  the  towne. 
But  in  did  come  the  King  of  Spayne, 

With  kempes  many  a  one. 


302 


•fting  ;e0tmere 


But  in  did  come  the  Kinff  of  Spayne, 

With  manye  a  bold  barone, 
Tone  day  to  marrye  King  Adlands  daughter, 

Tother  daye  to  carrye  her  home. 

Shee  sent  one  after  King  Estmere 

In  all  the  spede  might  bee, 
That  he  must  either  turne  againe  and  fighte, 

Or  goe  home  and  loose  his  ladyS. 

One  whyle  then  the  page  he  went, 

Another  while  he  ranne  ; 
Till  he  had  oretaken  King  Estmere, 

I  wis,  he  never  blanne. 

"  Tydings,  tydings,  King  Estmere !  " 
"  What  tydinges  nowe,  my  boye  ?  " 
O  tydinges  I  can  tell  to  you. 
That  will  you  sore  annoye. 

"  You  had  not  ridden  scant  a  mile, 

A  mile  out  of  the  towne, 
But  in  did  come  the  King  of  Spayne 

With  kempfe  many  a  one  : 

•'But  in  did  come  the  King  of  Spayne, 

With  manye  a  bolde  barone, 
Ton  2  daye  to  marrye  King  Adlands  daughter, 

Tother  daye  to  carry  her  home. 

"  My  ladye  fay  re  she  greetes  you  well, 

And  ever-more  well  by  mee  : 
You  must  either  turne  againe  and  fighte, 

Or  goe  home  and  loose  your  lady^." 

Saies,  "  Reade  me,  reade  mc,  deere  brother, 

My  reade  shall  rise  at  thee. 
Whether  it  is  better  to  turne  and  fighte, 

Or  go  home  and  loose  my  ladye." 


fkim  Bstmere 


303 


"  Now  hearken  to  me,"  sayes  Adler  younge, 
"  And  your  reade  must  rise  at  me, 

I  quicklye  will  devise  a  waye 
To  sette  thy  ladye  free. 

"  Sly  mother  was  a  westerne  woman, 

And  learned  in  gramary^, 
And  when  I  learned  at  the  schole, 

Something  shee  taught  itt  mee. 

"  There  growes  an  hearbe  within  this  field, 

And  iflfit  were  but  knowne. 
His  color,  which  is  whyte  and  redd, 

It  will  make  blacke  and  browne  : 

"  His  color,  which  is  browne  and  blacke, 
Itt  will  make  redd  and  whyte  ; 

That  sworde  is  not  in  all  Englande, 
Upon  his  coate  will  byte. 

"And  you  shal  be  a  harper,  brother, 

Out  of  the  north  countrye  ; 
And  He  be  your  boy,  soe  faine  of  fighte, 

And  beare  your  harpe  by  your  knee, 

"  And  you  shal  be  the  best  harper, 
That  ever  tooke  harpe  in  hand ; 
And  I  v/il  be  the  best  singer 
*#f       That  ever  sung  in  this  lande. 

"  Itt  shal  be  written  in  our  forheads 

All  and  in  gramaryS, 
That  we  towe  are  the  boldest  men 

That  are  in  all  Christentyd." 

And  thus  they  renisht  them  to  ryde, 

On  tow  good  renish  steedes  ; 
And  whan  they  came  to  King  Adlands  hall. 

Of  redd  gold  shone  their  weedes. 


304 


Ikitid  £6tmere 


And  whan  they  came  to  King  Adlands  hall, 

Untill  the  fayre  hall  yate, 
There  they  found  a  proud  port^ 

Rearing  himselfe  thereatt 

Sales,  "  Christ  thee  save,  thou  proud  port^  "  ; 

Sales,  "  Christ  thee  save  and  see." 
*  Now  you  be  welcome,"  sayd  the  porter, 
"  Of  what  land  soever  ye  bee." 

"  Wee  beene  harpers,"  sayd  Adler  younge, 
"  Come  out  of  the  northe  countrj-e  ; 

Wee  beene  come  hither  untill  this  place, 
This  proud  weddinge  for  to  see. ' ' 

Sayd,  "  And  your  color  were  white  and  redd. 

As  it  is  blacke  and  browne, 
I  wold  saye  King  Estmere  and  his  brother, 

Were  comen  untill  this  towne." 

Then  they  pulled  out  a  ryng  of  gold, 

lyayd  itt  on  the  porters  arme  : 
'  *  And  ever  we  -will  thee,  proud  porter, 

Thow  wilt  saye  us  no  harme." 

Sore  he  looked  on  King  Estm^e, 

And  sore  he  handled  the  rj-ng. 
Then  opened  to  them  the  fa5Te  hall  yates. 

He  lett  for  no  kind  of  thjmg. 

King  Estmere  he  stabled  his  steede 

Soe  feyre  att  the  hall  bord ; 
The  froth,  that  came  from  his  brydle  bitte. 

I,ight  on  King  Bremors  beard. 

Sales,  "  Stable  thy  steed,  thou  proud  harp^," 
Sales,  "  Stable  him  In  the  stalle  : 

It  doth  not  beseeme  a  proud  harp^ 
To  stable  him  in  a  kings  halle." 


Iking  Bstmere 


305 


"  My  ladde  he  is  so  lither,"  he  said, 
"  He  will  doe  nought  that 's  meete  ; 

And  is  there  any  man  in  this  hall 
Were  able  him  to  beate?  " 

*'  Thou  speakst  proud  words,"  sayes  the  King 

"  Thou  harper,  here  to  mee  :      [of  Spayne, 
There  is  a  man  within  this  halle 

Will  beate  thy  ladde  and  thee." 
"  O  let  that  man  come  downe,"  he  said, 

A  sight  of  him  wold  I  see  ; 
And  when  hee  hath  beaten  well  my  ladde, 

Then  he  shall  beate  of  mee." 
Downe  then  came  the  kemperye  man. 

And  looked  him  in  the  eare  ; 
For  all  the  gold  that  was  under  heaven. 

He  durst  not  neigh  him  neare. 
"  And  how  nowe,  kempe,"  said  the  King  of 

"How  nowe,  what  aileth  thee?  "    [Spayne, 
He  saies,  "  It  is  writt  in  his  forhead 

All  and  in  gramary^. 
That  for  all  the  gold  that  is  under  heaven, 

I  dare  not  neigh  him  nye." 
Then  King  Estmere  pulld  forth  his  harpe, 

And  playd  a  pretty  thinge : 
The  ladye  upstart  from  the  borde, 

And  wold  have  gone  from  the  king. 
"  Stay  thy  harpe,  thou  proud  harper, 

For  Gods  love  I  pray  thee. 
For  and  thou  playes  as  thou  beginns, 

Thou  'It  till  my  bryde  from  mee." 
He  stroake  upon  his  harpe  againe, 

And  playd  a  pretty  thinge  ; 
The  ladye  lough  a  loud  laughter, 

As  shee  sate  by  the  king. 


^o6 


IkirxQ  :e0tmere 


Saies,  "  Sell  me  thy  harpe,  thou  proud  harper, 

And  thy  string^  all, 
For  as  many  gold  nobles  thou  shalt  have 

As  heere  bee  ringes  in  the  hall." 

"  What  wold  ye  doe  with  my  harpe,"  he  sayd, 

"  If  I  did  sell  it  yee?" 
"  To  playe  my  wiffe  and  me  a  Fitt, 

When  abed  together  wee  bee." 

"  Now  sell  me,"  quoth  hee,  "  thy  br^'de  so  gay, 

As  shee  sitts  by  thy  knee, 
And  as  many  gold  nobles  I  will  give 

As  leaves  been  on  a  tree." 

"And  what  wold  ye  doe  with  mybrjde  soe 
Iflf  I  did  sell  her  thee  ?  "  [gay, 

"  More  seemelye  it  is  for  her  fayre  bodye 
To  lye  bj'  mee  then  thee." 

Hee  playd  agayne  both  loud  and  shrille, 

And  Adler  he  did  sing, 
"  O  ladye,  this  is  thy  owne  true  love  ; 

Noe  harper,  but  a  king. 

"  O  ladye,  this  is  thy  owne  true  love, 

As  playnlye  thou  mayest  see  ; 
And  He  rid  thee  of  that  foule  paynim, 

WTio  partes  thy  love  and  thee." 

The  ladye  looked,  the  ladye  blushte, 

And  blushte  and  lookt  agayne. 
While  Adler  he  hath  drawne  his  brande. 

And  hath  the  Sowdan  slayne. 

Up  then  rose  the  kemperye  men. 

And  loud  they  gan  to  crye  : 
"  Ah  !  traytors,  yee  have  slayne  our  king, 

And  therefore  yee  shall  dye." 


IRtna  Bstmere 


King  :Estmere  threwe  the  harpe  asyde, 

And  swith  he  drew  his  brand  ; 
And  Estmere  he,  and  Adler  younge, 

Right  stiflfe  in  stour  can  stand. 

And  aye  their  swords  soe  sore  can  byte, 
Through  help  of  gramary^,  [men, 

That  soone  they  have  slayne  the  kempery 
Or  forst  them  forth  to  flee. 

King  Kstmere  tooke  that  fayre  lady^, 

And  marryed  her  to  his  wiffe, 
And  brought  her  home  to  merry  Engird, 

With  her  to  leade  his  life. 


3o8 


^be  Gruel  Sister 


•  fiee  Appendix. 


Q^be  Cruel  Sister 


309 


He  courted  the  eldest  with  glove  and  ring, 
But  he  lo'ed  the  youngest  abune  a'  thing ; 

He  courted  the  eldest  with  broach  and  knife, 
But  he  lo'ed  the  youngest  abune  his  life  ; 

The  eldest  she  was  vexed  sair, 
And  sore  envied  her  sister  fair ; 

The  eldest  said  to  the  youngest  ane, 
"  Will  ye  go  and  see  our  father's  ships  come 
in?"— 

She  's  ta'en  her  by  the  lily  hand, 
And  led  her  down  to  the  river  strand ; 

The  youngest  stude  upon  a  stane, 
The  eldest  came  and  push'd  her  in  ; 

She  took  her  by  the  middle  sma', 
V  Aad  dash'd  her  bonny  back  to  the  jaw  ; 

'I  "  O  sister,  sister,  reach  your  hand, 

^  And  ye  shall  be  heir  of  half  my  land." — 

) 
jjt  "  O  sister,  I  '11  not  reach  my  hand, 

And  I  '11  be  heir  of  all  your  land  ; 

Shame  fa'  the  hand  that  I  should  take, 
U  's  twin'n  me,  and  my  world's  make." — 


S,  "  O  sister,  reach  me  but  your  glove, 

And  sweet  William  shall  be  your  love."— 

"  Sink  on,  nor  hope  for  hand  or  glove  ! 
And  sweet  William  shall  better  be  my  love  ; 

"  Your  cherry  cheeks  and  your  yellow  hair, 
Garr'd  me  gang  maiden  evermair."— 


5  TO 


trbe  Cruel  Sister 


Sometimes  she  sunk,  and  sometimes  she 

swam, 
Until  she  cam.  to  the  miller's  dam : 


"  Oh  father,  father,  draw  your  datn  ! 
There  's  either  a  mermaid,  or  a  milk-white 
swan,"— 

The  miller  hasted  and  drew  his  dam, 
And  there  he  found  a  drown'd  woman  ; 

You  could  not  see  her  yellow  hair. 
For  gowd  and  pearls  that  were  so  rare ; 

You  could  not  see  her  middle  sma', 
Her  gowden  girdle  was  sae  bra'  ; 

A  famous  harper  passing  by, 

The  sweet  pale  face  he  chanced  to  spy ; 

And  when  he  look'd  that  lady  on. 
He  sigh'd  and  made  a  hea\-y  moan  ; 

He  made  a  harp  of  her  breast-bone, 
Whose  sounds  would  melt  a  heart  of  stone  ; 

The  strings  he  fram'd  of  her  yellow  hair, 
Whose  notes  made  sad  the  list'ning  ear ; 

He  brought  it  to  her  father's  hall, 
And  there  was  the  court  assembled  all ; 

He  laid  his  harp  upon  a  stone. 
And  straight  it  began  to  play  alone  ; 

"  Oh  yonder  sits  my  father,  the  king, 
And  yonder  sits  my  mother  the  queen  ; 

•■'And  yonder  stands  my  brother  Hugh, 
And  by  him  my  William,  cweet  and  true."'— 


Zbc  Cruel  Sister 


3" 


I  But  the  last  tune  that  the  harp  play'd  then, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie ; 
Was — "  Woe  to  my  sister,  false  Helen  !  "— 
B3'  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie. 


312 


jpair  l)elen 


O I  sweetest  sweet,  and  fairest  fair. 
Of  birth  and  worth  beyond  compare. 
Thou  art  the  causer  of  my  care, 
Since  first  I  loved  thee. 


See  Appendix. 


jfair  fbclcn 


313 


Yet  God  hath  gpiven  to  me  a  mind, 
The  which  to  thee  shall  prove  as  kind 
As  any  one  that  thou  shalt  find 

Of  high  or  low  degree. 
The  shallowest  water  makes  maist  din, 
The  deadest  pool,  the  deepest  linn  ; 
The  richest  man  least  truth  within, 

Though  he  preferred  be. 
Yet,  nevertheless,  I  am  content. 
And  never  a  whit  my  love  repent, 
But  think  the  time  was  a'  weel  spent. 

Though  I  disdained  be. 
O  !  Helen  sweet,  and  maist  complete. 
My  captive  spirit 's  at  thy  feet ! 
Thinks  thou  still  fit  thus  for  to  treat 

Thy  captive  cruelly  ? 

0  !  Helen  brave  !  but  this  I  crave, 
Of  thy  poor  slave  some  pity  have, 
And  do  him  save  that  's  near  his  grave. 

And  dies  for  love  of  thee. 

PART   SECOND. 

1  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies. 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries  ; 
O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies, 

On  fair  Kirconnell  L,ee  ! 
Curst  be  the  heart  that  thought  the  thought, 
And  curst  the  hand  that  fired  the  shot, 
When  in  my  arms  burd  Helen  dropt, 

And  died  to  succour  me  ! 
O  think  na  ye  my  heart  was  sair,        [mair ! 
When  my  love  dropt  down  and  spak  nae 
There  did  she  swoon  wi'  meikle  care, 

On  fair  Kirconnell  I^ee. 


314 


fMv  l>elen 


As  I  went  down  the  water  side, 
None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 
None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 
On  fair  Kirconnell  L,ee  ; 


I  lighted  down  my  sword  to  draw, 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma', 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma'. 
For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 


0  Helen  fair,  beyond  compare  ! 

1  '11  make  a  garland  of  thy  hair, 
Shall  bind  my  heart  for  evermair, 

Until  the  day  I  die. 

O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies  ! 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries  ; 
Out  of  my  bed  she  bids  me  rise, 
Says,  "  Haste  and  come  to  me  !  " — 

O  Helen  fair  !  O  Helen  chaste  ! 
If  I  were  with  thee,  I  were  blest, 
Where  thou  lies  low,  and  takes  thy  rest, 
On  fair  Kirconnell  Lee. 


I  w^ish  my  g^ave  were  growing  green, 
A  winding-sheet  drawn  ower  my  een, 
And  I  in  Helen's  arms  lying. 
On  fair  Kirconnell  L,ee. 


I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies ! 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries ; 
And  I  am  weary  of  the  skies, 
For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 


jfaic  Ibelcn 


315 


3i6 


Crbe  Xuck  of  Bi)en*l)aH 


THE  I^UCK  OF  EDEN-HAI.I..* 

On  Eden's  wild  romantic  bowers, 
The  summer  moonbeams  sweetly  fall, 

And  tin  j  with  yellow  light  the  towers — 
The  stately  towers  of  Eden-Hall. 


*  See  Appendix. 


XLbc  Xuck  of  }6C)en*1baU 


317 


There,  lonely  in  the  deepening  night, 

A  lady  at  her  lattice  sits, 
And  trims  her  taper's  wavering  light, 

And  tunes  her  idle  lute  by  fits. 

But  little  can  her  idle  lute, 
Beguyle  the  weary  moments  now  ; 

And  little  seems  the  lay  to  suit 
Her  wistful  eye  and  anxious  brow. 

For,  as  the  chord  her  finger  sweeps. 
Oft-times  she  checks  her  simple  song, 

To  chide  the  forward  chance  that  keeps 
lyord  Musgrave  from  her  arms  so  long. 

And  listens,  as  the  wind  sweeps  by. 
His  steed's  familiar  step  to  hear— 

Peace,  beating  heart !  't  was  but  the  cry 
And  foot-fall  of  the  distant  deer. 

In,  lady,  to  thy  bower  ;  fast  weep 
The  chill  dews  on  thy  cheek  so  pale ; 

Thy  cherished  hero  lies  asleep — 
Asleep  in  distant  Russendale  ! 

The  noon  was  sultry,  long  the  chase — 
And  when  the  wild  stag  stood  at  bay, 

BURBEK  reflected  from  its  face 
The  purple  lights  of  dying  day. 

Through  many  a  dale  must  Musgrave  hie — 
Up  many  a  hill  his  courser  strain, 

Ere  he  behold,  with  gladsome  eye, 
His  verdant  bowers  and  halls  again. 

But  twilight  deepens— o'er  the  wolds 
The  yellow  moonbeam  rising  plays. 

And  now  the  haunted  forest  holds 
The  wanderer  in  its  bosky  maze. 


'MS 


trbe  Xucft  of  BDcn*l)aU 


No  ready  vassal  rides  in  sight ; 

He  blows  his  bugle,  but  the  call 
Roused  Echo  mocks  :  farewell,  to-night, 

The  homefelt  joys  of  Eden-Hall ! 

His  steed  he  to  an  alder  ties, 

His  limbs  he  on  the  greensward  flings  • 
And,  tired  and  languid,  to  his  eyes 

Woos  sorceress  slumber's  balmy  wings. 
A  prayer — a  sigh,  in  murmurs  faint, 

He  whispers  to  the  passing  air ; 
The  Ave  to  his  patron  saint — 

The  sigh  was  to  his  lady  fair. 

'T  was  well  that  in  that  Elfin  wood 
He  breathed  the  supplicating  charm, 

Which  binds  the  Guardians  of  the  good 
To  shield  from  all  unearthly  harm. 

Scarce  had  the  night's  pale  I^ady  staid 
Her  chariot  o'er  th'  accustomed  oak. 

Than  murmurs  in  the  mystic  shade 
The  slumberer  from  his  trance  awoke. 

Stiff  stood  his  courser's  mane  with  dread — 

His  crouching  greyhound  whined  with 
fear; 
And  quaked  the  wild-fern  round  his  head, 

As  though  some  passing  ghost  were  near. 
Yet  calmly  shone  the  moonshine  pale 

On  glade  and  hillock,  flower  and  tree  ; 
And  sweet  the  gurgling  nightingale 

Poured  forth  her  music,  wild  and  free. 

Sudden  her  notes  fall  hushed,  and  near 
Flutes  breathe,  horns  warble,  bridles  ring : 

And,  in  gay  cavalcade,  appear 
The  Fairies  round  their  Fairy  King. 


Zbc  Xucft  of  B0cn*1baH 


319 


Twelve  hundred  Klfin  knights  and  more 
Were  there,  in  silk  and  steel  arrayed  ; 

And  each  a  ruby  helmet  wore, 
And  each  a  diamond  lance  displayed. 

And  pursuivants  with  wands  of  gold. 
And  minstrels  scarfed  and  laurelled  fair, 

Heralds  with  blazoned  flags  unrolled, 
And  trumpet-tuning  dwarfs  were  there. 

Behind,  twelve  hundred  ladies  coy,  [Queen  ; 

On  milk-white  steeds,  brought  up  their 
Their  kerchiefs  of  the  crimson  soy. 

Their  kirtles  all  of  lyincoln-green. 

Some  wore,  in  fanciful  costume, 

A  sapphire  or  a  topaz  crown  ; 
And  some  a  hern's  or  peacock's  plume, 

Which  their  own  tercel-gents  struck  down . 

And  some  wore  masks,  and  some  wore  hoods, 
Some  turbans  rich,  some  ouches  rare  ; 

And  some  sweet  woodbine  from  the  woods, 
To  bind  their  undulating  hair. 

With  all  gay  tints  the  darksome  shade 
Grew  florid  as  they  passed  along. 

And  not  a  sound  their  bridles  made 
But  tuned  itself  to  Klfin  song. 

Their  steeds  they  quit ;— the  knights  ad- 
And  in  quaint  order,  one  by  one,    [vance. 

Each  leads  his  lady  forth  to  dance, — 
The  timbrels  sound — the  charm  's  begun. 

Where'er  they  trip,  where'er  they  tread, 

A  daisy  or  a  bluebell  springs  ; 
And  not  a  dew-drop  shines  o'erhead. 

But  falls  within  their  charmed  rings. 


320 


XLbc  Xuck  ot  jBt>cn^tyan 


"  The  dance  lead  up,  the  dance  lead  down, 
The  dance  lead  round  our  favourite  tree  ; 

If  now  one  lady  wears  a  frown, 
A  false  and  froward  shrew  is  she  ! 

"There  's  not  a  smile  we  Fays  let  fall 
But  swells  the  tide  of  human  bliss ; 

And  if  good  luck  attends  our  call, 
'T  is  due  on  such  sweet  night  as  this. 

"  The  dance  lead  up,  the  dance  lead  down, 
The  dance  lead  round  our  favourite  tree  ; 

I  f  now  even  Oberon  wears  a  frown, 
A  false  and  froward  churl  is  he  !  " 

Thus  sing  the  Fays  ; — I,ord  ^lusgrave  hears 
Their  shrill  sweet  song,  and  eager  eyes 
he  radiant  show,  despite  the  fears 
That  to  his  bounding  bosom  rise. 

;  ut  soft — the  minstrelsy  declines ; 

The  morris  ceases — sound  the  shaums  ! 
And  quick,  whilst  many  a  taper  shines. 

The  heralds  rank  their  airj'  swarms. 

Titania  waves  her  crj-stal  wand  : 
And  underneath  the  green-wood  bower. 

Tables,  and  urns,  and  goblets  stand, 
Metheglin,  nectar,  fruit,  and  flower. 

"  To  banquet,  ho !  "  the  seneschals 
Bid  the  brisk  tribes,  that,  thick  as  bees 

At  sound  of  cymbals,  to  their  calls 
Consort  beneath  the  leafy  trees. 

Titania  by  her  king,  each  knight 
Beside  his  ladye  love  ;  the  page 

Behind  his  'scutcheon'd  lord, — a  bright 
Equipment  on  a  brilliant  stage  ! 


XLbc  %\xck  of  Bt)en*1baU 


321 


The  monarch  sits ; — all  helms  are  doffed, 
Plumes,  scarfs,  and  mantles  cast  aside  ; 

And,  to  the  sound  of  music  soft. 
They  ply  their  cups  with  mickle  pride. 

Or  sparkling  mead,  or  spangling  dew. 
Or  livelier  hyppocras  they  sip ; 

And  strawberries  red,  and  mulberries  blue. 
Refresh  each  elf  s  luxurious  lip. 

With  "  nod,  and  beck,  and  wreathed  smile," 

They  heap  their  jewelled  patines  high  ; 
Nor  want  their  mirthful  airs  the  while 

To  crown  the  festive  revelry. 
A  minstrel  dwarf,  in  silk  arrayed, 

I^ay  on  a  mossy  bank,  o'er  which 
The  wild  thyme  wove  its  fragrant  braid. 

The  violet  spread  its  perfume  rich  ; 

\nd  whilst  a  page  at  Oberon's  knee 
Presented  high  the  wassail-cup, 

This  lay  the  little  bard  with  glee 
From  harp  of  ivory  offered  up  : 
Health  to  our  sovereign  ! — fill,  brave  boy, 
Yon  glorious  goblet  to  the  brim  ! 

There  'sjoy — in  every  drop  there  's  joy 
That  laughs  within  its  charmed  rim  ! 

"  'T  was  wrought  within  a  wizard's  mould. 
When    signs    and    spells    had    happiest 
power ; — 

Health  to  our  King  by  wood  and  wold  ! 
Health  to  our  Queen  in  hall  and  bower  ! " 

They  rise — the  myriads  rise,  and  shrill 
The  wild-wood  echoes  to  their  brawl, — 

"Health  to  our  King  by  wold  and  rill  ! 
Health  to  our  Queen  in  bower  and  hall  1  '• 


322 


^be  Xuck  ot  J6&en*l)all 


A  sudden  thought  fires  Musgrave's  brain, — 
So  help  him  all  the  Powers  of  lyight, — 

He  rushes  to  the  festal  train, 
And  snatches  up  that  goblet  bright ! 

With  three  brave  bounds  the  lawn  he  crossed. 

The  fourth  it  seats  him  on  his  steed  ; 
"  Now,  Courser !  or  thy  lord  is  lost- 
Stretch  to  the  stream  with  lightning  speed ! ' 

'T  is  uproar  all  around,  behind, — 
I^aps  to  his  selle  each  screaming  Fay, 

"The  charmed  cup  is  fairly  tined. 
Stretch  to  the  strife,— away  !  away  !  " 

As  in  a  whirlwind  forth  they  swept. 

The  green  turf  trembling  as  they  passed  ; 
But  forward  still  good  Musgrave  kept, — 
^     The  shallow  stream  approaching  fast. 

A  thousand  quivers  round  him  rained 
Their  shafts  or  ere  he  reached  the  shore  ; 

But  when  the  farther  bank  was  gained, 
This  song  the  passing  whirlwind  bore  : 

"  Joy  to  thy  banner,  bold  Sir  Knight ! 

But  if  yon  goblet  break  or  fall, 
Farewell  thy  vantage  in  the  fight  !— 

Farewell  the  luck  of  Eden-Hall !  " 

The  forest  cleared,  he  winds  his  horn, — 
Rock,  wood,  and  wave  return  the  din  ; 

And  soon,  as  though  by  Echo  borne. 
His  gallant  Squires  come  pricking  in. 

'T  is  dusk  of  day  ;— in  Eden's  towers 
A  mother  o'er  her  infant  bends. 

And  lists,  amid  the  whispering  bowers, 
The  sound  that  from  the  stream  ascends. 


^be  Xucft  of  BDenslball 


323 


It  comes  in  murmurs  up  the  stairs,— 
A  low,  a  sweet,  a  mellov/  voice, — 

And  charms  away  the  lady's  cares, 
And  bids  the  mother's  heart  rejoice. 

"  Sleep  sweetly,  habe  !  "  't  was  heard  to  say ; 

"  But  if  the  goblet  break  or  fall. 
Farewell  thy  vantage  in  the  fray  ! — 

Farewell  the  luck  of  Kden-Hall !  " 

Though  years  on  years  have  taken  flight. 
Good-fortune  's  still  the  Musgrave's  thrall ; 

Hail  to  his  vantage  in  the  fight ! 
All  hail  the  I^uck  of  Eden-Hall  ! 


324 


XaDg  Bnnc  JSotbweirs  Xamcnt 


Balow,  my  boy ;  lie  still  and  sleipl 
It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weip : 
If  thou 'se  be  silent,  I'se  be  glad  ; 
Thy  maining  make  my  heart  full  sad. 
Balow,  my  boy,  thy  mother'sjoy ; 
Thy  father  breidy  me  great  annoy. 
Balow,  my  boy ;  lie  still  and  sleip  1 
It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weip. 


*  See  Appendix. 


XaD^  Bnne  :fi3otbweir0  Xament 


325 


When  he  began  to  court  my  luve, 
And  with  his  sugred  words  to  muve, 
His  feignings  false  and  flattering  cheir 
To  me  that  time  did  not  appeir : 
But  now  I  see,  most  cruel  he 
Cares  neither  for  his  babe  nor  me. 

Balow,  my  boy  ;  lie  still  and  sleip  ! 

It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weip. 
I,ie  still,  my  darling  ;  sleip  awhile, 
And,  when  thou  wakest,  sweetlie  smile  : 
But  smile  not  as  thy  father  did, 
To  cozen  maids  :  nay,  God  forbid  ! 
But  yet  I  feir,  thou  wilt  gae  neir 
Thy  father's  heart  and  face  to  beir. 

Balow,  my  boy  ;  lie  still  and  sleip  ! 
I      It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weip. 
"  Farewell,  farewell,  thou  falsest  youth, 
That  ever  kist  a  woman's  mouth  ! 
I^et  nevir  any,  after  me, 
Submit  unto  thy  courtesie  ; 
For,  if  they  do.  Oh,  cruel  thou 
Wilt  her  abuse,  and  care  not  how. 

Balow,  my  boy  ;  lie  still  and  sleip  ! 

It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weip. 
I  was  too  credulous  at  first. 
To  yield  thee  all  a  maiden  durst. 
Thou  swore  for  ever  true  to  prove. 
Thy  faith  unchanged,  unchanged  thy  love  ; 
But,  quick  as  thought,  the  change  is  wrought, 
Thy  love  's  no  more,  thy  promise  noucht. 

Balow,  my  boy  ;  lie  still  and  sleip  ! 

It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weip. 
Balow,  my  boy  ;  weep  not  for  me, 
Whose  gieatest  grief 's  for  wronging  thee ; 
)Tor  pity  her  deserved  smart, 
Whp  can  blame  none  but  her  fond  heart. 


326 


XaDi^  Bnne  :JBotbweir8  Xament 


>tN 


The  too  soon  trusting,  latest  finds, 
With  fairest  tongues  are  falsest  minds. 

Balow,  my  boy ;  lie  still  and  sleip  ! 

It  grieves  me  sair  to  heir  thee  weip. 
Oh,  do  not,  do  not,  prettie  mine, 
To  feinings  false  thy  heart  incline. 
Be  loyal  to  thy  lover  trus, 
And  never  change  her  for  a  new : 
If  good  or  fair,  of  her  have  care  ; 
For  women's  banning  's  wondrous  sair. 

Balow,  my  boy  ;  lie  still  and  sleip  ! 

It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weip. 
Balow,  my  boy  ;  thy  father  's  fled. 
When  he  the  thriftless  son  has  play'd. 
Of  vows  and  oaths  forgetful,  he 
Prefers  the  wars  to  thee  and  me. 
But  now,  perhaps,  thy  curse  and  mine 
Make  him  eat  acorns  with  the  swine. 

Balow,  my  boy  ;  lie  still  and  sleip ! 

It  grieves  me  sair  to  heir  thee  weip. 
^  Yet  I  can't  chuse,  but  ever  will 

I'.c  loving  to  thy  father  still : 
^.,  Where'er  he  gae,  where'er  he  ride, 
My  luve  with  him  doth  still  abide  : 
In  weel  or  wae,  where'er  he  gae. 
My  heart  can  ne'er  depart  him  frae. 

Balow,  my  boy ;  lie  still  and  sleip  ! 

It  grieves  me  sair  to  heir  thee  weip. 
Then  curse  him  not :  perhaps  now  he. 
Stung  with  remorse,  is  blessing  thee  : 
Perhaps  at  death  ;  for  who  can  tell. 
Whether  the  judge  of  heaven  or  hell, 
By  some  proud  foe  has  struck  the  blow, 
And  laid  the  dear  deceiver  low. 

Balow,  my  bo^' ;  lie  still  and  sleip  ! 

I*  grieves  me  sair  to  heir  thee  weip. 


XaDs  Bnnc  JSotbweirs  Xamcnt 


327 


I  wish  I  were  into  the  bounds 
Where  he  lies  smothered  in  his  wounds- 
Repeating,  as  he  pants  for  air, 
My  name,  whom  once  he  called  his  fair. 
No  woman  's  yet  so  fiercely  set, 
But  she  '11  forgive,  though  not  forget. 

Balow,  my  boy  ;  lie  still  and  sleip  ! 

It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weip. 

Balow,  my  boy  !  I  '11  weip  for  thee  ; 
Too  soon,  alas,  thou  'It  weip  for  me  : 
Thy  griefs  are  growing  to  a  sum — 
God  grant  thee  patience  when  they  come ; 
Born  to  sustain  thy  mother's  shame, 
A  hapless  fate,  an  outcast's  name  ! 

Balow,  my  boy ;  lie  still  and  sleip  ! 

It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weip. 


328 


BulD  •Robin  0ras 


When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  when  the  cows  come  hame. 
When  a'  the  weary  warld  to  quiet  rest  are  gane ; 
The  woes  of  my  heart  fa'  in  showers  frae  my  ee, 
Unken'd  by  my  gudeman,  who  soundly  sleeps  by  me. 

Young  Jamie  loo'd  me  weel,  and  sought  me  for  his  bride ; 
But  saving  ae  crown  piece,  he  'd  naething  else  beside. 
To  make  the  crown  a  pMJund,  my  Jamie  gaed  to  sea  ; 
And  the  crown  and  the  pound,  O  they  were  baith  for  me  ! 


•  See  Appendix. 


BulD  IRobin  ©rai? 


329 


330  SulD  "Robin  <5rai? 

Before  he  had  been  gane  a  twelvemonth  and  a  day, 

My  father  brak  his  arm,  our  cow  was  stown  away ; 

My  mother  she  fell  sick — my  Jamie  was  at  sea — 

And  Auld  Robin  Gray,  oh  !  he  came  a-courting  me. 

My  father  cou'dna  work — my  mother  cou'dna  spin  ; 

I  toil'd  day  and  night,  but  their  bread  I  cou'dna  win  ; 

Auld  Rob  maintain'd  them  baith,  and,  wi'  tears  in  his  ee, 

Said  "  Jenny,  oh  !  for  their  sakes,  wiU  you  marry  me  !  " 

My  heart  it  said  na,  and  I  look'd  for  Jamie  back  ; 

But  hard  blew  the  winds,  and  his  ship  was  a  wrack  : 

His  ship  it  was  a  wrack  !  Why  didna  Jamie  dee  ? 

Or,  wherefore  am  I  spar'd  to  cry  out.  Woe  is  me  ! 

My  father  argued  sair— my  mother  didna  speak, 

But  she  look'd  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was  like  to  break; 

They  gied  him  my  hand,  but  my  heart  was  in  the  sea  ; 

And  so  Auld  Robin  Gray,  he  was  gudeman  to  me. 

I  hadna  been  his  wife,  a  week  but  only  four. 

When  mournfu'  as  I  sat  on  the  stane  at  my  door, 

I  saw  my  Jamie's  ghaist — I  cou'dna  think  it  he, 

Till  he  said,  "  I  'm  come  hame,  my  love,  to  marry  thee  ! " 

0  sair,  sair  did  we  greet,  and  mickle  say  of  a'  ; 
Ae  kiss  we  took,  nae  mair— I  bad  him  gang  awa. 

1  wish  that  I  were  dead,  but  I  'm  no  like  to  dee  ; 
For  O,  I  am  but  young  to  crj'  out,  Woe  is  me  ! 

I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  and  I  carena  much  to  spin, 
I  darena  think  o'  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a  sin. 
But  I  will  do  my  best  a  gude  wife  aj-e  to  be, 
For  Auld  Robin  Gray,  oh  !  he  is  sae  kind  to  me. 

THE  CONTINUATION. 

The  wintry  days  grew  lang,  my  tears  they  were  a  spent ; 
May  be  it  was  despair  I  fancied  was  content. 
They  said  my  cheek  was  wan  ;  I  cou'dna  look  to  see — 
For,  oh  !  the  wee  bit  glass,  my  Jamie  gaed  it  me. 


BulD  "Kobtn  ©rag 


331 


m^ 


332  BulD  IRobin  (5rai? 


My  father  he  was  sad,  my  mother  dull  and  wae  ; 
But  that  which  grieved  me  maist,  it  was  Auld  Robin  Gray ; 
Though  ne'er  a  word  he  said,  his  cheek  said  mair  than  a'. 
It  wasted  like  a  brae  o'er  which  the  torrents  fa'. 

He  gaed  into  his  bed — nae  physic  wad  he  take  ; 
And  oft  he  moan'd  and  said,  "  It  's  better,  for  her  sake." 
At  length  he  look'd  upon  me,  and  call'd  me  his  "  ain  dear," 
And  beckon'd  round  the  neighbours,  as  if  his  hour  drew  near. 

" I  've  wrong'd  her  sair,"  he  said,  "but  ken't  the  truth  o'er  late  ; 

It 's  grief  for  that  alone  that  hastens  now  my  date  ; 

But  a'  is  for  the  best,  since  death  will  shortly  free 

A  young  and  faithful  heart  that  was  ill  match'd  w'  me. 

"  I  lood,  and  sought  to  win  her  for  mony  a  lang  day  ; 
I  had  her  parents'  favour,  but  still  she  said  me  nay  ; 
I  knew  na  Jamie's  luve  ;  and  oh  !  it  's  sair  to  tell — 
To  force  her  to  be  mine,  I  steal'd  her  cow  mysel ! 

"  O  what  cared  I  for  Crummie  !  I  thought  of  nought  but  thee, 
I  thought  it  was  the  cow  stood  'twixt  my  luve  and  me. 
While  she  maintain'd  ye  a',  was  you  not  heard  to  say, 
That  you  would  never  marry  wi'  Auld  Robin  Gray  ? 

"  But  sickness  in  the  house,  and  hunger  at  the  door, 
My  bairn  gied  me  her  hand,  although  her  heart  was  sore. 
I  saw  her  heart  was  sore— why  did  I  take  her  hand  ? 
That  was  a  sinfu'  deed  !  to  blast  a  bonny  land. 

"  It  was  na  very  lang  ere  a'  did  come  to  light ; 
For  Jamie  he  came  back,  and  Jenny's  cheek  grew  white. 
My  spouse's  cheek  grew  white,  but  true  she  was  to  me ; 
Jenny  !  I  saw  it  a' — and  oh,  I  'm  glad  to  dee  ! 

*'  Is  Jamie  come?  "  he  said  ;  and  Jamie  by  us  stood — 

"  Ye  loo  each  other  weel — oh,  let  me  do  some  good  ! 

I  gie  you  a',  young  man — my  houses,  cattle,  kine, 

And  the  dear  wife  bersel,  that  ne'er  should  hae  been  mine." 


BulO  IRobin  (3raB 


333 


We  kiss'd  his  clay-cold  hands— a  smile  came  o'er  his  face  ; 
"  He  's  pardon'd,"  Jamie  said,  "  before  the  throne  o'  grace. 
Oh,  Jenny  !  see  that  smile — forgi'en  I  'm  sure  is  he, 
Wha  could  withstand  temptation  when  hoping  to  win  thee  ?  ' 

The  days  at  first  were  dowie ;  but  what  was  sad  and  sair. 
While  tears  were  in  my  ee,  I  kent  mysel  nae  mair  ; 
For,  oh  !  my  heart  was  light  as  ony  bird  that  flew, 
And,  wae  as  a'  thing  was,  it  had  a  kindly  hue. 

But  sweeter  shines  the  sun  than  e'er  he  shone  before. 
For  now  I  'm  Jamie's  wife,  and  what  need  I  say  more? 
We  hae  a  wee  bit  bairn— the  auld  folks  by  the  fire— 
And  lamie,  oh  '  he  loo  s  me  up  to  my  heart's  desire. 


334 


jeifinlanO  lnauD 


ELFINI,AND  WUD.* 


Erl  William  tiasmuntit  his  gude  grai  stede, 
(Merrie  lemis  munelicht  on  the  sea  ) 

And  graithit  him  in  ane  cumli  weid. 
(Swa  bonnilie  blumis  the  hawthorn  tree.) 


»  See  Appendix. 


lElfinlanD  limuD 


335 


T^  "-^ 


Erl  William  rade,  EIrl  William  fan— 
(Fast  they  ryde  quha  luve  trewlie,) 

Quhyll  the  E;ifinland  wud  that  gude  Eri  wan— 
(Blink  ower  the  burn,  sweit  may,  to  mee.) 

Elfinland  wud  is  dern  and  dreir, 
(Merrie  is  the  grai  goukis  sang,) 

Bot  ilk  ane  leafis  quhyt  as  silver  cleir, 
(I^icht  makis  schoirt  the  road  swa  lang.) 

It  is  undirneth  ane  braid  aik  tree, 
(Hey  and  a  lo,  as  the  leavis  grow  grein,) 

Thair  is  kythit  ane  bricht  ladie, 
(Manie  flowris  blume  quhilk  ar  nocht  seen.) 

Around  hir  slepis  the  quhyte  muneschyne, 

(Meik  is  mayden  undir  kell,) 
Her  lips  bin  lyke  the  blude  reid  wyne  ; 

(The  rois  of  flowris  hes  sweitest  smell.) 

It  was  al  bricht  quhare  that  ladie  stude, 
(Far  my  luve,  fure  ower  the  sea.) 

Bot  dern  is  the  lave  of  Elfinland  wud, 
(The  knicht  pruvit  false  that  ance  luvit  me.) 

The  ladle's  handis  were  quhyte  als  milk, 
(Ringis  my  luve  wore  mair  nor  ane.) 

Her  skin  was  safter  nor  the  silk  ; 
(Ivilly  bricht  schinis  my  luvis  halse  bane.) 

Save  you,  save  you,  fayr  ladie, 
(Gentil  hert  schawls  gentil  deed.) 

Standand  alane  undir  this  auld  tree  ; 
(Deir  till  knicht  is  nobil  steid.) 

Burdalane,  if  ye  dwall  here, 
(My  hert  is  layed  upon  this  land.) 

I  wuld  like  to  live  j'our  fere  ; 
(The  shippis  cum  sailin  to  the  strand.) 


336 


BlfinlanD  mu^ 


Nevir  ane  word  that  ladie  sayd  ; 

(Schortest  rede  hes  least  to  mend.) 
Bot  on  hir  harp  she  evir  plaj'd  ; 
(Thare  nevir  was  mirth  that  had  nocht  end.) 

Gang  ye  eist,  or  fare  ye  wast, 

(Ilka  stem  blinkis  blythe  for  thee,) 
Or  tak  ye  the  road  that  ye  like  best, 
f^      (Al  trew  feeris  ryde  in  cumpanie.) 


~-^/ 


Brl  William  loutit  doun  full  lowe  ; 

(lyuvis  first  seid  bin  curtesie.) 
And  swung  hir  owir  his  saddil  bow, 

(Ryde  quha  listis,  ye  '11  link  with  mee.) 

Scho  flang  her  harp  on  that  auld  tree, 
(The  wj-nd  pruvis  aye  ane  harpir  gude.) 

And  it  gave  out  its  music  free  ; 
(Birdis  sing  blj'the  in  gay  grein  wud.) 

The  harp  playde  on  its  leeful  lane, 

(I<ang  is  my  luvis  yellow  hair.) 
Quhill  it  has  charmit  stock  and  stane, 

(Furth  by  firth,  deir  lady  fare.) 

Quhan  sho  was  muntit  him  behynd, 
(Blyth  be  hertis  quhilkis  luve  ilk  uthir.) 

Awa  thai  flew  Ij-ke  flaucht  of  wind  ; 

(Kin  kens  kin,  and  baimis  thair  mither.) 

Nevir  ane  word  that  ladie  spak ; 

(Mim  be  maydins  men  besyde.) 
Bot  that  stout  steid  did  nicher  and  schaik ; 

(Smal  thingis  humbil  hertis  of  pryde.) 

About  his  breist  scho  plet  her  handis ; 

(I,uvand  be  maydins  quhan  thai  lyke.) 
Bot  thay  were  cauld  as  jTon  bandis ; 

(The  winter  bauldbindissheuch  and  syke.) 


;6ltiinlan&  'Mntf 


337 


'^S 


m\ 


Your  handis  ar  cauld,  fayr  ladie,  sayd  hee, 
(The  caulder  hand  the  trewer  hairt.) 

I  tretnbil  als  the  leif  on  the  tree  ; 
(Licht  caussis  muve  aid  friendis  to  pairt.) 

I^ap  your  mantil  owir  your  heid, 
(My  luve  was  clad  in  the  reid  Scarlett,) 

And  spredd  your  kirtil  owir  my  stede ; 
(Thair  nevir  was  joie  that  had  nae  lett.) 


The  ladie  sho  wald  nocht  dispute  ; 

(Nocht  woman  is  scho  that  laikis  ane  tung.) 
liut  caulder  hir  fingeris  about  him  cruik. 

(Sum  sangis  ar  wnt,  hot  nevir  sung.) 

This  Klfinland  Wud  will  neir  haif  end ; 

(Hunt  quha  listis,  daylicht  for  mee.) 
I  wuld  I  culd  ane  Strang  bow  bend, 

(Al  undimeth  the  grein  wud  tree.) 

Thai  rad'e  up,  and  they  rade  doun, 
V,  rs\     (Wearilie  wearis  wan  nicht  away.) 
^^Krl  William's  heart  mair  cauld  is  grown ; 
(Hey,  luve  mine,  quhan  dawis  the  day?) 

Your  hand  lies  cauld  on  my  briest-bane, 
(Smal  hand  hes  my  ladie  fair,) 

My  horss  he  can  nocht  stand  his  lane, 
(For  cauldness  of  this  midnicht  air.) 

Krl  William  tumit  his  heid  about ; 

(The  braid  mune  schinis  in  lift  richt  cleir.) 
Twa  Klfin  een  are  glentin  owt, 

(My  luvis  een  like  twa  sternis  appere.) 

Twa  brennand  eyen,  sua  bricht  and  full 
(Bonnilie  blinkis  my  ladies  ee.) 

Flang  fire  flauchtis  fra  ane  peelit  skull ; 
(Sum  sichts  ar  ugsomlyk  to  see.) 


338 


jElfinland  Wi\xt> 


Twa  rawis  of  quhyt  teeth  then  did  say, 
(Cauld  the  boysteous  windis  sal  blaw.) 

Oh,  lang  and  wear>'  is  our  way, 
(And  donkir  yet  the  dew  maun  fa'.) 


'    I 


Far  owir  mure,  and  far  owir  fell, 
(Hark  the  sounding  huntsmen  thrang  ;) 

Thorow  dingle,  and  thorow  dell, 
(Luve,  come,  list  the  merlis  sang  )* 

*  Glossary —Muntit,  w/fM7i/^rf.  Cudcir^oi/.  Lcniis, 
gleami,  iitutiiiates.  GxA\\.\\it,clresieii.  Derii, /tia'rf^w, 
secret,  dari.  Swa,  jo.  Qaha.,ioho.  Quhyll,  Tt'AiVf.  Grai 
goukis  sang,  song  of  the  "  tut^uo-gray.  '  Ilk  ane,  raih, 
ezeryouc.  llkahasthesaniesignihcatiou.  Quliyi,  TtAi/f. 
Schoirt,  lang,  shvrt,  Iuiij:.  Braid  aik  tree.  Or  uad  oak  tree. 
Kylhit,  rfjiftrz/rrfrt'.  Qunilk.nocht,  zt'/rjV//,  >/f/.  Kcll,  a 
-voman's  head-dress.  'W\^\o\%,  the  ruse.  S\.\xClC,  stood. 
¥uT&,  fared.  Botdern  is  the  lave,  but  dark,  vr  hidden, 
is  the  remainder.  Als.ffj.  Mair  nor  A-actnore  than 
one'.  Schiius,  halse  bane,  shines,  tollar  bone.  Hert 
sthawis.  heart  sho^vs.  Standandalane,  standing  alone. 
Till,  to.  Burdalane,  a  term  used  to  denote  one  who  is  the 
only  child  left  in  a  family  ;  btrd  alone,  or  5o/j/«rv.  Layed, 
■•  lay  "  means  basis,  axfoundatiou,  and  the  signifiiaiion 
of  ••  layed,  '  here,  \% fixed,  1  think,  or  set.  Fere,  a  cum- 
panion.  Sthortest  rede  has  least  to  mend,  shortest 
(ounsel  has  least  to  expiate.  Nocht,  «o/.  Gang,eist, 
v,^sx,  go,  east, -west.  Stern,  i/<ir.  \^o\jA\\.,  stooped.  Seid 
bin,  oj/sprui^  is.  Scho,  she.  Its  leeful  lane,  by  itself 
alone.  Funhby  firlYt.for/h,  abroad  by  frith.  Blyth  be 
hertes  quhilkis  luve  ilk  utliir,  blithe  be  hearts  -whuh  love 
earh  other.  Flaucht,  gust,  and  also  flake.  Bairnis, 
niither,  children,  mother.  Mini,  ajfettedly  vtodest  or 
toy, prim.  Hkhi^r,  neigh.  Qulian  thai  lykc,  wAf// ///<>' 
( hoose.  Bauld,  slicuth,  bold,  a  furrow  or  ditih.  Syke, 
a  rill,  or  mulet,  usually  dry  in  summer.  Hairt,  heart. 
AM,  pairt,  old, part.  Nae  lelt,  710  oimruction,  no  hiu- 
derance,  Nocht  woman  is  sthotliat  laikisaiie  tuiig,  she 
-aho  lacks  a  toni;ue,  is  not  a  -uotnan.  Sangis,  songs. 
Haif,  haze.  Quhan  daw  is  the  day,  -uhen  breaks  the  day, 
'BxA\hxn\ine,  broad  moon.  "LxW,  the  firmament.  Glentin, 
glancing,  gleaming.  Brennand,  burning.  Fia  ane 
peelitskull,yrj>>«  a  peeled  skull.  Vz^^omXyV,  very  loath- 
some, disgusting.  Kawis,  rt-ji^j.  Boysteous, /^t^f/rroMj, 
blustering.  Donkir,  damper,  danker.  Maun  fa',  must 
fall.  The  merlis  sang,  the  blackbird's  song.  Flude, 
flood.  l<\u<.\y,  moody.  B\\ii\c,  blood.  A  seamless  shrowd 
weird  schaipis  for  me  I  a  seamless  shroud  fate,  or  des- 
tiny, prepares  for  me.  To  rede  aright  my  spell,  to  ex- 
plain aright  my  tale.  'EenUcaTtfully,  drearily.  Sal, 
shall.  Quhill  fleand  Hevin  and  raikand  Hell,  -while 
avoiding  Heaven  and  ranging  Hell,  Ghaist,  ghost. 
Luvand,  loving,  ajfee  tionatt. 


BltlnlanO  TIDlu& 


339 


Thorow  fire,  and  thorow  flude, 

(Mudy  mindis  rage  lyk  a  sea  ;) 
Thorow  slauchtir,  thorow  blude, 

(A  seamless  shrowd  weird  schaipis  for  me  !) 

And  to  rede  aricht  my  spell, 

Eerilie  sal  nicht  wyndis  moan, 
Quhill  fleand  Hevin  and  raikand  Hell, 

Ghaist  with  ghaist  maun  wandir  on. 


340 


tTbe  trwa  Qotbice 


See  Appendix. 


As  I  was  walking  all  alane, 

I  heard  twa  corbies  making  a  mane  ; 

if^^f^^^^^to  the  t'other  say, 

^^  Where  sail  we  gang  and  dine  to-day  ? ' 

"In  behint  yon  aiild  fail  dyke 

I  wot  there  lies  a  new-slain  knight  • 

Buth":?°'j^^"^*^^*^^^-tLr;. 
But  his  hawk,  his  hound,  and  lady  fair 


XLbc  ^wa  Corbies 


341 


^^^^, 


"His  hound  is  to  the  hunting:  gane, 
His  hawk  to  fetch  the  -wild-fowl  hame,    . 
His  lady  's  ta'en  another  mate, 
So  we  may  make  our  dinner  sweet. 

"  Ye  '11  sit  on  his  white  hause-bane. 
And  I  '11  pick  out  his  bonny  blue  een  : 
Wi'  ae  lock  o'  his  gowden  hair, 
We  '11  theek  our  nest  when  it  grows  bare. 


O'er  his  white  banes,  when  they  are  bare. 
The  wind  sail  blaw  for  evermair." 


342 


f)endi6t  and  Ose^ 


h^ 


HENGIST  AND  MEY.* 

In  ancient  days,  when  Arthur  reigned, 

Sir  Elmer  had  no  peer  ; 
And  no  young  knight  in  all  the  land 

The  ladies  loved  so  dear. 

His  sister,  Mey,  the  fairest  maid 

Of  all  the  virgin  train. 
Won  every  heart  at  Arthur's  court ; 

But  all  their  love  was  vain. 


•  Sec  Appendix, 


Dcngist  anD  /Des 


343 


/ 

\ 

k 

1 

In  vain  they  loved,  in  vain  they  vowed ; 

Her  heart  they  could  not  move  : 
Yet,  at  the  evening  hour  of  prayer, 

Her  mind  was  lost  in  love. 

The  abbess  saw — the  abbess  knew, 

And  urged  her  to  explain  : 
"  O  name  the  gentle  youth  to  me. 

And  his  consent  I  '11  gain." 

I,ong  urged,  long  tried,  fair  Mey  replied, 

"  His  name— how  can  I  say  ? 
An  angel  from  the  fields  above 

Has  'rapt  my  heart  away. 

"  But  once,  alas  !  and  never  more, 

His  lovely  form  I  'spied  ; 
One  evening,  by  the  sounding  shore. 

All  by  the  green-wood  side. 

"  His  eyes  to  mine  the  love  confest, 
That  glowed  with  mildest  grace ; 

His  courtly  mien  and  purple  vest 
Bespoke  his  princely  race. 

"  But  when  he  heard  my  brother's  horn, 

Fast  to  his  ships  he  fled  ; 
Yet,  while  I  sleep,  his  graceful  form 

Still  hovers  round  my  bed. 

"  Sometimes,  all  clad  in  armour  bright, 

He  shakes  a  warlike  lance  ; 
And  now,  in  courtly  garments  dight. 

He  leads  the  sprightly  dance. 

"  His  hair,  as  black  as  raven's  wing ; 

His  skin— as  Christmas  snow  ; 
His  cheeks  outvie  the  blush  of  morn. 

His  lips  like  rose-buds  glow. 


344 


l)cngi6t  anD  ^eg 


^ 

r/\  ''t^^^^ 

Q 

mt 

^ 

\^m 

f 

^1 

\ 

■  ^J 

1         ■  ~n 

"  His  limbs,  his  arms,  his  stature  shaped 

By  nature's  finest  hand ; 
His  sparkling  eyes  declare  him  bom 

To  love,  and  to  command." 

The  live-long-  year,  fair  Mey  bemoaned 

Her  hopeless,  pining  love  : 
But  when  the  balmy  spring  returned, 

And  summer  clothed  the  grove, 

All  round  by  pleasant  Humber  side, 

The  Saxon  banners  flew. 
And  to  Sir  Elmer's  castle  gates 

The  spearmen  came  in  view. 

Fair  blushed  the  morn,  when  Mey  looked 
The  castle  walls  so  sheen  ;  [o'er 

And  lo !  the  warlike  Saxon  youth 
Were  sporting  on  the  green. 

There  Hengist,  Offa's  eldest  son, 
I,eaned  on  his  burnished  lance. 

And  all  the  armed  youth  around 
Obeyed  his  manly  glance. 

His  locks,  as  black  as  raven's  wing, 

Adown  his  shoulders  flowed  ; 
His  cheeks  outvied  the  blush  of  mom, 

His  lips  like  rose-buds  glowed. 

And  soon,  the  lovely  form  of  Mey 

Has  caught  his  piercing  eyes  ; 
He  gives  the  sign,  the  bands  retire. 

While  big  with  love  he  sighs. 

"Oh,  thou  !  for  whom  I  dared  the  seas. 

And  came  with  peace  or  war ; 
Oh  !  by  that  cross  that  veils  thy  breast, 

Relieve  thy  lover's  care  ! 


Ibcngiet  anD  iReg 


345 


"  For  thee,  I  '11  quit  my  father's  throne  ; 

With  thee,  the  wilds  explore  ; 
Or  with  thee  share  the  British  crown  ; 

With  thee,  the  Cross  adore." 

Beneath  the  timorous  virgin  blush, 
With  love's  soft  warmth  she  glows  ; 

So,  blushing  through  the  dews  of  mom. 
Appears  the  opening  rose. 

'T  was  now  the  hour  of  morning  prayer, 

When  men  their  sins  bewail, 
And  :Elmer  heard  King  Arthur's  horn. 

Shrill  sounding  through  the  dale. 

The  pearly  tears  from  Mey's  bright  eyes, 

I^ike  April  dew-drops  fell, 
When,  with  a  parting,  dear  embrace. 

Her  brother  bade  farewell. 

The  cross  with  sparkling  diamonds  bright. 

That  veiled  the  snowy  breast. 
With  prayers  to  Heaven  her  lily  hands 

Have  fixed  on  Elmer's  vest. 

Now,  with  five  hundred  bowmen  true. 
He  's  marched  across  the  plain  ; 

Till  with  his  gallant  yeomandrie, 
He  joined  King  Arthur's  train. 

Full  forty  thousand  Saxon  spears 
Came  glittering  down  the  hill. 

And  with  their  shouts  and  clang  of  arms 
The  distant  valleys  fill. 

Old  Offa,  dressed  in  Odin's  garb, 

Assumed  the  hoary  god  ; 
And  Hengist,  like  the  warlike  Thor, 

Before  the  horsemen  rode. 


346 


'tocrxQiet  anO  /Ibcg 


With  dreadful  rage  the  combat  bums, 

The  captains  shout  amain  ; 
And  Elmer's  tall  victorious  spear 

Far  glances  o'er  the  plain. 

To  stop  its  course  young  Hengist  flew, 

Like  lightning  o'er  the  field ; 
And  soon  his  ej-es  the  well-known  cross 

On  Elmer's  vest  beheld. 

The  slighted  lover  swelled  his  breast, 

His  eyes  shot  living  fire  ! 
And  all  his  martial  heat  before, 

To  this  was  mild  desire. 

On  his  imagined  rival's  front, 
With  whirlwind  speed  he  pressed, 

And  glancing  to  the  sun,  his  sword 
Resounds  on  Elmer's  crest. 

The  foe  gave  way ; — ^the  princely  youth 

With  heedless  rage  pursued, 
Till  trembling  in  his  cloven  helm 

Sir  Elmer  s  javelin  stood. 

He  bowed  his  head — slow  dropped  his  spear ; 

The  reins  slipped  through  his  hand  ; 
And,  stained  with  blood — his  stately  corse 

Lay  breathless  on  the  strand. 

"  O  bear  me  off  (Sir  Elmer  cried) ; 

Before  my  painful  sight 
The  combat  swims— yet  Hengist 's  vest 

I  claim  as  victor's  right." 

Brave  Hengist's  fall  the  Saxons  saw, 

And  all  in  terror  fled ; 
The  bowmen  to  his  castle  gates 

The  brave  Sir  Elmer  led. 


fbcmist  anO  /Hbcs  347 

"  O,  wash  my  wounds,  my  sister  dear ; 

O,  pull  this  Saxon  dart, 
That,  whizzing  from  young  Hengist's  arm, 

Has  almost  pierced  my  heart. 

"  Yet  in  my  hall  his  vest  shall  hang  ; 

And  Britons  yet  unborn, 
Shall  with  the  trophies  of  to-day 

Their  solemn  feasts  adorn." 

All  trembling,  Mey  beheld  the  vest ; 

"  O,  Merlin  ! "  loud  she  cried ; 
"  Thy  words  are  true — my  slaughtered  love 

Shall  have  a  breathless  bride  ! 

"  Oh  !  Elmer,  Elmer,  boast  no  more 

That  low  my  Hengist  lies  ! 
Oh  !  Hengist,  cruel  was  thine  arm  ! 

My  brother  bleeds  and  dies  !  " 

She  spake, — the  roses  left  her  cheeks, 

And  life's  warm  spirit  fled  : 
So,  nipt  by  winter's  withering  blasts. 

The  snow-drop  bows  its  head  ! 

Yet  parting  life  one  struggle  gave, — 

She  lifts  her  languid  eyes  ; 
"  Return,  my  Hengist !  oh,  return. 

My  slaughtered  love  !  "  she  cries. 

"  Oh— still  he  lives — he  smiles  again. 

With  all  his  grace  he  moves  : 
I  come — I  come,  where  bow  nor  spear 

Shall  more  disturb  our  loves  !  " 

She  spake— she  died  !  The  Saxon  dart 
Was  drawn  from  Elmer's  side  ; 

And  thrice  he  called  his  sister  Mey, 
And  thrice  he  groaned, — and  died  ! 


348 


Ibcngiet  an&  flScs 


Where  in  the  dale  a  moss-grown  Cross 

O'ershades  an  aged  thorn, 
Sir  Elmer's  and  young  Hengist's  corse 

Were  by  the  spearmen  borne. 

And  there,  all  clad  in  robes  of  white, 
With  many  a  sigh  and  tear, 

The  village  maids  to  Hengist's  grave 
Did  Mey's  fair  body  bear. 

And  there,  at  dawn  and  fall  of  day, 
All  from  the  neighbouring  groves 

The  turtles  wail,  in  widowed  notes, 
And  sing  their  hapless  loves. 


APPENDIX. 


CHEVY  CHACE. 

There  are  two  versions  of  this  ballad,  the  more  modern  of  which 
is  here  given,  as  it  is  more  intelligible  to  the  general  reader. 
The  earlier  one,  which  was  first  published  by  Percy,  is  more  vigor- 
ous, if  also  rugged  and  uncouth.  Nothing  authentic  can  fix  the  pre- 
cise date  of  the  poem,  which  is  known  to  have  been  popular  in  the 
time  of  Elizabeth.  The  mention  of  the  battle  of  Humbledoun 
(September,  1402)  proves  that  the  action  took  place  prior  to  that 
date.  An  Earl  of  Douglas  is  known  to  have  been  slain  by  a  Percy 
in  the  battle  of  Otterbourne  (1388),  and  it  may  be  that  that  was  the 
foundation  of  this  ballad,  although  there  are  several  others  which 
have  that  battle  as  their  theme. 

Douglas  had  captured  the  pennon  of  Percy  during  an  incursion  of 
the  Scots  into  the  English  marches,  and  the  fight  at  Otterbourne 
was  the  result  of  an  attempt  to  regain  this. 

THE  CHII.DREN  IN  THE  WOOD. 

Ritson  says  that  this  ballad  appears  to  have  been  written  in  1595, 
as  it  was  entered  in  that  year  on  the  Stationers'  books,  but  there  is 
some  doubt  as  to  the  date  of  its  original  composition.  Dr.  Percy 
credits  it  to  an  old  play,  the  scene  of  which  is  laid  in  Padua.  It  is, 
however,  too  English  to  make  an  Italian  source  probable,  and  the 
ballad  may  be  regarded  as  a  model  of  the  pure  old  English  style. 
It  was  very  popular,  and  was  sung  to  the  tune  oi  Rogero. 


350  BppcnDij 


FAIR  ROSAMUND. 

The  fate  of  Fair  Rosamund  was  a  favorite  theme  with  the  early 
minstrels,  and  historians  have  not  disdained  to  preserve  the  mem- 
ory of  her  beauty  and  sad  stor5^ 

According  to  Stowe,  who  follows  Higden,  the  monk  of  Chester, 
she  was  the  daughter  of  Walter,  I^rd  CliflTord,  and  became  the 
favorite  of  Henry  II.,  and  mother  of  two  sons,  William  Longsword, 
Earl  of  Salisbury,  and  Geoffrey,  Bishop  of  Lincoln.  Her  royal  lover 
made  her  a  house  at  Woodstock,  so  cunningly  hidden  in  a  labyrinth 
that  none  could  come  to  it.  Queen  Fleanor,  prompted  by  jealousy, 
discovered  the  secret,  penetrated  to  her  rival,  and  so  "dealt  with 
her  that  she  lived  not  long."  This  was  in  1177  A.  D.  It  was  be- 
lieved that  she  was  poisoned,  but  the  fact  is  not  proven.  Rosamund 
was  buried  at  Godstow,  "  in  a  house  of  nunnes  besides  Oxford." 

This  version  of  the  ballad  appears  to  have  been  published  in  1612. 
Percy  gives  another  called  "  Queen  Eleanor's  Confession, '  'and  there 
were  several  others  current  varying  only  in  details. 

THE  DEMON  LOVER. 

This  ballad  first  appeared  in  the  "  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish 
Border."  Sir  Walter  Scott  received  it  from  Sir  William  Laidlaw,  by 
whom  it  was  "taken  down  in  recitation." 

Sir  W^alter  Scott  saj^s  the  legend  here  given  is  "in  various  shapes 
current  in  Scotland,"  and  mentions  another  song  in  which  a  fiend 
is  disconcerted  by  holy  herbs  in  the  bosom  of  a  maiden.  Here,  un- 
luckily, the  lady  had  no  such  protection. 

The  same  power  of  keeping  away  evil  spirits  is  attributed  to  the 
vervain  in  Ireland. 

The  NUT-BROWN  MAYD. 

The  remote  antiquity  of  this  beautiful  composition  is  unquestion- 
able. There  are,  indeed,  good  reasons  for  placing  it  as  early  as 
1400.  In  the  sixteenth  century  it  was  so  popular  that  it  was  paro- 
died, and  Prior  wrote  a  poem,  "  Henry  and  Emma,"  taking  it  as  a 
model. 


BppenOfj  351 


KEMPION. 

This  ballad  is  taken  from  the  "  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border," 
where  it  is  given  "  chiefly  "  from  Mrs.  Brown's  MS.,  "with  correc- 
tions from  a  recited  frag~ment."  The  date  of  composition  is  un- 
known. Sir  Walter  Scott  says  it  was  probably  an  old  metrical 
romance  degraded  into  a  ballad  by  the  lapse  of  time  and  the  corrup- 
tion of  reciters. 

Many  tales  of  fabulous  snakes  being  slain  by  brave  knights  are 
current  throughout  the  British  Isles  and  Denmark,  whence  they 
may  have  been  exported  by  the  sea-kings. 

THE  CHII,D  OF  ^hX,H. 

Percy  was  the  first  to  publish  this  ballad,  which  he  probably 
emended  greatly  from  the  MS.  in  his  possession.  It  is  unquestion- 
ably Scotch  in  origin,  as  many  other  Scotch  poems  relate  a  similar 
incident. 

"  Child"  is  used  for  knight. 

the;  TWA  BROTHERS. 

This  ballad  is  copied  from  Motherwell's  "  Minstrelsy,  Ancient  and 
Modern."  The  editor  is  inclined  to  trace  it  to  an  event  which 
occurred  in  the  family  of  the  Somervilles  in  1589  A.  D.  The  master 
of  Somerville  and  John,  his  brother,  were  lying  on  the  grass  where 
their  horses  were  grazing.  The  master,  after  sleeping,  found  that 
one  of  his  pistols  was  wet  with  dew.  In  rubbing  this  to  dry  it,  it 
went  off  accidentally,  and  John  was  killed  without  having  a  chance 
to  speak  again.  In  this,  or  some  similar  incident,  the  ballad  origi- 
nated undoubtedly.    Other  versions  are  also  in  existence. 

THE  BEGGAR'S  DAUGHTER  OF  BEDNAI,!,  GREEN. 

The  ballad,  as  given  here,  is  Percy's  version.  Percy  places  its 
composition  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  because  there  is  men- 
tion of  "the  Queene's  Armes,"  and  also  because  of  the  "tune's 
being' quoted  in  other  old  pieces  written  in  her  time." 


352  BppenMr 


History  informs  us  that  at  the  decisive  battle  of  Eversham  (August 
4, 1265),  when  Simon  de  Montfort,  the  great  Earl  of  Leicester,  was 
slain  at  the  head  of  his  barons,  his  eldest  son  Henry  fell  by  his  side, 
and  the  whole  family  perished  forever,  their  possessions  being  be- 
stowed upon  Edmund,  Earl  of  I^ancaster,  second  son  of  the  king. 
There  is  no  date  from  which  to  tell  whether  the  story  of  the  blind 
beggar  is  pure  fiction  or  founded  on  fact. 

The  "  angell "  mentioned  was  a  gold  coin,  value  about  ten  shil- 
lings. It  bore  a  figure  of  St.  Michael  on  one  side,  a  ship  on  the 
other,  and  was  first  coined  by  Edward  IV.  in  1466. 

ROBIN  GOODFELLOW. 

This  is  printed  from  a  black-letter  copy  in  the  British  Museum. 
Puck,  or  Robin  Goodfellow,  was  a  "  shrewd  and  knavish  sprite.'' 
and  his  tricks  and  pranks  were  described  by  many  of  the  old  poets. 
He  has  been  traced  back  to  the  thirteenth  centurj',  and  maj'  have 
existed  earlier.  He  is  never  represented  as  malicious.  Though  he 
leads  people  into  trouble,  he  gets  them  out  again,  and  is  alwaj-s 
generous  to  those  who  please  him. 

The  Puck  or  Chooka  of  Ireland  is  a  more  evil-minded  imp,  and 
many  stories  are  related  by  the  peasantry  of  his  merciless  cruelties 
and  malicious  pranks. 

This  version  of  the  ballad  is  attributed  to  Ben  Jonson  (1574-1637), 
probably  without  suflBcient  authoritj',  as  it  is  not  included  in  his 
works.  Undoubtedly  it  was  written  for  some  masque  in  which  the 
character  of  Robin  Goodfellow  was  assumed  by  an  actor,  who  de- 
scribes himself  to  the  audience  as  being  sent  by  Oberon  to 
"  See  the  night-sport  here." 

SIR  PATRICK  SPENS. 

This  ballad,  in  several  versions,  lays  claim  to  a  "high  and  remote 
antiquity."  It  was  tindoubtedly  founded  on  some  actual  occur- 
rence, but  the  earlier  annotators  were  unable  to  establish  the  fact. 

Mr.  Motherwell,  from  whose  collection  this  is  taken,  hovever,  con- 


Bppent)fx  353 


siders  that  it  records  the  fate  of  the  band  who  escorted  Margaret, 
daughter  of  Alexander  III.  of  Scotland  (1249),  when  she  espoused  the 
Fife  of  Norway,  as  many  of  her  escort  are  said  to  have  perished  on 
their  return  trip.  Sir  Walter  Scott  thinks  that  the  expedition  was  de- 
spatched to  bring  home  Margaret's  infant  daughter,  when  she 
became  heir  to  the  Scotch  throne  on  the  death  (or  the  approaching 
death)  of  Alexander  III. 

The  objection  of  the  "  skeely  "  skipper  to  sail  at  "  this  time  of  the 
year  "  is  thus  accounted  for  :  It  was  deemed  imprudent  to  navigate 
in  winter.  Two  hundred  years  after  the  date  assigned  to  this  poem, 
an  act  of  Parliament  forbade  navigation  "  frae  the  feast  of  St,  Simon 
and  St.  Jude  to  Candlemas." 

GII,  MORRIC^. 

This  is  taken,  in  part,  from  Percy,  but  it  had  already  been  printed 
—communicated,  it  is  said,  to  the  printers  by  a  lady  who  took  it 
down  from  "the  mouths  of  old  women  and  nurses." 

The  word  "  Gil "  is  now  considered  to  be  a  corruption  of  "  child," 
which  is  so  frequently  used  as  "  knight." 

There  can  be  no  doubt  of  the  antiquity  of  the  poem,  but  it  has 
probably  undergone  many  modern  improvements.  Many  of  the 
places  referred  to  can  be  localized. 

The  "majer  dish  "  mentioned  with  the  "siller  cup  "  is  probably 
the  dish  on  which  the  cup  stood, 

SIR  AI^DINGAR, 

This  ballad  is  taken  from  Percy,  The  only  information  given  iz 
that  the  author  seems  to  have  had  in  his  eye  the  story  of  Gunhilda, 
sometimes  called  Eleanor,  married  to  the  Emperor  Henry.  Sir 
Walter  Scott  says  the  tradition  upon  which  it  is  founded  is  "  uni- 
versally current  among  the  Mearns,"  and  he  was  informed  that 
"until  very  lately  the  sword  with  which  Sir  Hugh  le  Blond  was  be- 
lieved to  have  defended  the  honor  of  the  queen  was  carefully  pre- 
served by  his  descendants,  the  Viscounts  cf  Arbuthnot."    This  Sir 


354  BppenMj 


Hugh  lived  in  the  thirteenth  century,  but  there  is  no  instance  in 
history  in  which  the  good  name  of  a  queen  of  Scotland  was  com- 
mitted to  the  chance  of  a  duel. 

SIR  I.ANCEI.OT  DU  I.AKE. 

Printed  from  a  black-letter  copy  in  the  British  Museum,  purer 
than  Percy's  version.  It  is  mainly  indebted  to  its  celebrity  from  the 
fact  that  Shakespeare  mentions  it. 

The  subject  is  taken  from  the  ancient  romance  of  Morte  d' Arthur. 
Sir  I,ancelot  was  one  of  the  most  renowned  among  the  twenty-four 
knights  cf  Arthur's  Round  Table.  This  famed  table  originated 
with  Uther  Pendragon,  Arthur's  father,  for  whom  it  was  made  in 
token  cf  the  roundness  of  the  world.  The  knights  were  bound  by 
oath  to  assist  each  other  and  help  the  distressed.  The  mirror  of  all 
was  Arthur.  I,ancelot's  history  is  the  perfection  of  romance.  His 
father,  "King  Ban,"  attacked  by  his  enemy.  King  Claudas,  escaped 
with  queen  and  child  to  solicit  aid  of  Arthur,  but  died  of  grief  on  the 
way.  His  queen  left  the  infant  a  moment  to  attend  to  her  dying 
husband,  and  when  she  returned  she  found  the  child  in  the  arms  of 
a  njTnph,  who  sprang  with  him  into  a  lake.  She  was  "Vivian,  mis- 
tress of  the  enchanter,  Merlin,  and  she  brought  up  the  boy  in  her 
home  beneath  the  water.  When  he  was  eighteen  she  took  him  to 
Arthur's  court  and  obtained  knighthood  for  him.  Throughout 
I^ancelot's  after-life  this  lady  of  the  lake  continued  to  be  his  guardian. 
In  the  chapel  of  Winchester  Castle  is  preserved  what  is  affirmed  to 
be  the  original  round  table.  It  is,  however,  not  considered  earlier 
than  the  time  of  Stephen. 

KING  ARTHUR'S  DEATH. 

King  Arthur  and  the  knights  of  his  round  table  are  familiar  to  all 
readers  of  old  romance.  The  fabulous  ' '  History  of  Geoffrey  of  Mon- 
mouth," published  about  the  middle  of  the  twelfth  century,  is  the 
undoubted  source  upon  which  the  minstrels  drew  so  largely.  He 
claims  that  he  translated  the  story  from  a  very  ancient  book,  but  the 


BppenMj  355 


general  opinion  on  the  matter  is  that  it  was  a  pure  invention  of  the 
"historian."  Arthur  was  the  son  of  Uther  Pendragon,  King  of 
Britain.  The  mystery  of  his  life  commenced  with  his  birth,  his 
father  having  been  introduced  by  Merlin,  the  enchanter,  to  his 
mother  in  the  semblance  of  one  whose  form  it  was  criminal  to  as- 
sume. Arthur's  lineage  was  kept  secret,  and  he  was  reared  in 
obscurity  by  Merlin  until  his  father's  death.  Then  the  wizard  pro- 
posed that  the  rival  competitors  to  the  throne  should  test  their 
strength  by  drawing  a  sword — the  far-famed  Kxcalibur— «out  of  a 
stone.  Arthur  was,  of  course,  successful,  and  was  crowned  in  Card- 
vile,  that  noble  town. 

Thenceforth  his  career  was  one  of  conquest,  either  upon  a  large 
scale,  surrounded  by  all  his  knights,  or  in  single  combat.  Arthur's 
death  was  as  mysterious  as  his  birth,  and  is  described  in  the  follow- 
ing ballad.  I,ong  after  its  occurrence  his  return  to  life  was  looked 
for.  It  is  "believed  by  the  vulgar  that  he  still  lives  and  is  to  come 
to  restore  the  Britons  to  their  own."  This  epitaph  is  in  the  "mo- 
nastic church  of  Glasinberi  "  : 

"  Hie  jacet  Arthurus,  rex  quondam  atque  futurus." 

the;  heir  of  IvINNE. 

This  is  copied  from  Percy,  who  emended  it  from  a  fragment  in  his 
possession.  He  considers  that  it  was  originally  Scotch,  and  ob- 
serves :  "The  Heir  of  l^inne  seems  not  to  have  been  a  lyord  of 
Parliament,  but  a  laird  whose  title  went  along  with  his  land." 

I.ORD  SOUIvIS. 

This  is  the  composition  of  John  I,eyden  (b.  1775).  The  hero  is 
supposed  to  be  William,  I^ord  Soulis,  who  was  of  royal  descent  and 
aspired  to  the  Scottish  throne  with  aid  of  Robert  de  Bruce  (d.  1329). 
In  local  tradition,  according  to  Sir  Walter  Scott,  he  is  represented 
as  a  cruel  tyrant  and  sorcerer,  using  all  means,  human  and  infernal, 
to  attain  his  ends.  Tradition  relates  that  the  Scottish  king,  wearied 
of  reiterated  complaints,  peevishly  exclaimed:  "Boil  him,  if  you 


356  BppenMr 


please,  but  let  me  hear  no  more  of  him."  Satisfied  with  this  an- 
swer, they  hastened  to  execute  the  commission.  The  cauldron 
which  they  used  for  this  purpose  on  the  Nine-Stane  Rig  is  said  to 
have  been  long  preser\-ed  at  Shelf-Hill,  a  hamlet  betwixt  Hawick 
and  the  Hermitage  which  was  Lord  Soulis'  castle.  The  Nine-Stane 
Rig  derives  its  name  from  a  circle  of  so-called  Druidical  stones,  five 
of  which  are  still  visible.  The  king,  it  is  said,  sent  tnessengers  to 
prevent  the  effect  of  his  hasty  declaration,  but  they  did  not  arrive 
till  all  -v^jas  over.  The  idea  of  I^rd  Soulis'  familiar,  connection  with 
whom  was  broken  by  his  looking  at  him,  was  derived,  according  to 
Scott,  from  "  Spirit  Orthone  and  the  Lord  of  Corasse."  The  forma- 
tion of  ropes  of  sand  was  assigned  as  an  interminable  task  by 
Michael  Scott  to  a  number  of  spirits  for  whom  he  wished  to  find 
employment. 

LORD  THOMAS  AND  FAIR  ANNET. 

This  is  taken  from  Percy,  who  copied  it  from  a  Scotch  MS.  He 
thinks  that  it  is  composed  from  two  English  ballads,  "Lord  Thomas 
and  Fair  Ellin  or,"  and  "  Fair  Margaret  and  Sweet  William." 


PAUSE  FOODRAGE. 

First  published  in  "  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border,"  where  it 
was  "chiefly  given  from  the  MS.  of  Mrs.  Brown  of  Falkland." 
There  appears  to  be  no  historical  authority  for  the  leading  incident 
of  the  poem,  the  exchange  of  the  children.  It  is  not  improbable 
that  some  such  incident  did  occur,  as  the  old  ballad-makers  were 
seldom  inventors.  That  its  age  is  remote  is  certain  by  the  reference 
to  King  Easter  and  King  Wester,  although  the  former  kingdom 
cannot  be  positively  located.  There  is  internal  evidence  of  its 
Scottish  origin. 

GENEVIEVE. 

This  is  the  comix>sition  of  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  and  is  given 
as  a  specimen  of  his  ballad  verse. 


BppenMj:  357 


FAIR  MARGARET  AND  SWEET  WII.I.IAM, 

Percy  took  this  from  a  printed  copy  picked  up  at  a  stall.  Al- 
though the  language  is  modernized,  it  retains  many  tokens  of 
antiquity. 

THE  MERMAID. 

"This  ballad,"  writes  Sir  "Walter  Scott,  "was  founded  upon  a 
Gaelic  traditional  ballad  called  '  Macphail  of  Colonsay  and  the  Mer- 
maid of  Corrivrekin.'  The  dangerous  gulf  of  Corrivrekin  lies 
between  the  islands  of  Jura  and  Scarba,  and  the  superstition  of  the 
islanders  has  peopled  it  with  all  kinds  of  fabulous  monsters,  of 
which  the  mermaid,  who  somewhat  resembles  the  siren  of  the 
ancients,  is  the  most  remarkable."  According  to  the  Gaelic  story, 
Macphail  of  Colonsay  was  carried  off  by  a  mermaid,  and  passed 
several  years  beneath  the  sea  with  her.  Finally  he  tired  of  her 
society,  and  prevailed  on  her  to  carry  him  to  Colonsay,  where  he 
escaped.  Such  stories  are  common  in  the  islands,  and  in  Ireland 
peasants  are  still  to  be  found  who  have  seen  them  "combing  their 
yellow  hair." 

I,ORD  UI.I.IN'S  DAUGHTER. 

Thomas  Campbell  (1777-1843),  the  author  of  this  ballad,  does  not 
mention  whether  it  was  pure  invention.  Probably  neither  lyord 
Ullin  nor  the  Chief  of  Ulva's  Isle  are  altogether  fictitious.  lyoch 
Gyle  or  Goil  is  an  arm  of  I,och  Long,  a  salt-water  loch  fed  by  the 
Frith  of  Clyde.  Being  near  the  counties  of  the  chief  Scottish  fami- 
lies, it  has  been  the  site  of  many  a  clan  feud. 


SIR  AGII.THORN. 

This  is  the  production  of  Matthew  Gregory  Incurs  (1773-1818),  who 
was  the  first  to  introduce  a  German  element  into  English  fiction. 
He  had  some  influence  on  English  taste,  but  most  of  his  composi- 
tions have  already  perished. 


358  HppcnMs 


JOHNrE  OF  BRADISIyEE. 

From  " Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border."  Scott  styles  it  "an 
ancient  Nithsdale  ballad,"  the  hero  of  which  appears  to  have  been 
an  outlaw  and  deer-stealer.  It  is  said  he  possessed  the  old  castle  of 
Dumfriesshire,  now  ruinous.  The  date  of  Johnie's  histor3'  must  be 
verj-  remote,  for  the  scene  of  his  exploits  has  been  cultivated  domain 
"  beyond  the  memory  of  tradition."    There  are  several  versions. 

THE  DOWTE  DENS  OF  YARROW. 

This  was  first  published  in  the  "  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Bor- 
der." Sir  Walter  Scott  collected  this  form  from  the  several  versions 
in  circulation.  He  says  :  "  Tradition  places  the  event  recorded  very 
earh",  and  the  ballad  was  probably  composed  soon  afterwards, 
though  the  language  has  been  modernized  in  the  course  of  oral 
tradition."  He  believes  that  the  hero  was  a  knight  called  Scott, 
and  that  the  action  refers  to  a  duel  fought  at  Deucharswj-re,  of 
which  Annan's  Treat  is  a  part,  between  John  Scott,  of  Tushielaw, 
and  his  brother-in-law  Walter  Scott,  in  which  the  latter  was  slain. 
Annan's  Treat  is  a  low  muir  on  the  banks  of  the  Yarrow.  "  There 
are  two  tall,  unhewn  masses  of  stone  erected  about  eighty  feet 
distant  from  each  other,  and  the  least  child  that  can  herd  a  cow 
will  tell  you  that  there  lie  the  two  lords  who  were  slain  in  single 
combat. 

THE  BONNIE  BAIRNS. 

Allan  Cunningham  "arranged  and  eked  out  these  old  and  re- 
markable verses."  It  is  probable  that  the  original  was  nothing 
more  than  a  crude  outline.  The  superstition  involved  is  current  in 
Scotland. 

GI^ENFINI^AS. 

This  is  the  composition  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  The  tradition  upon 
which  it  is  founded  is  briefly  as  follows  :  Two  Highland  hunters 
were  passing  the  night  in  a  solitary-  bothy  (hunting  hut)  and  making 


BppentXj  359 


merry,  when  they  expressed  a  wish  that  they  had  some  lassies  to 
bear  them  company.  Their  words  were  scarcely  uttered,  when  two 
beautiful  young  women  entered.  One  of  the  hunters  was  induced 
to  leave  the  hut  with  one  of  these  sirens,  but  tne  other,  suspicious, 
played  a  sacred  strain  upon  a  jews-harp  until  day  came  and  the 
damsel  vanished.  He  searched  for  his  friend,  and  found  nothing 
but  his  bones.  He  had  been  devoured  by  the  fiend.  The  place  was 
henceforth  called  the  Glen  of  the  Green  Women.  Glenfinlas  is  a 
tract  of  forest  land  lying  in  the  Highlands  of  Perthshire,  not  far 
from  Callander  in  Menteith. 


the:  gay  GOSS-HAWK. 

This  was  first  published  in  the  "  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Bor- 
der." Sir  "Walter  Scott  says  it  was  taken  partly  from  one  in  Mrs. 
Brown's  collection,  and  partly  from  a  MS.  The  leading  incident, 
conveyance  of  a  letter  under  a  goss-hawk's  wing,  is  common 
enough.    There  are  several  other  versions. 

COWN  AND  I^UCY. 

This  is  the  composition  of  Tickell  (d.  1740),  the  friend  of  Addin, 
and  seems  to  have  been  written  in  Ireland,  though  it  is  not  Irish. 

KATHARINE  JANFARIE). 

Sir  Walter  Scott  published  this  first— combined  from  several  re- 
cited copies.  The  scene  of  the  ballad  is  said  to  lie  upon  the  banks 
of  the  "  Cadden-water,"  a  small  rill  which  joins  the  Tweed,  betwixt 
Inverleithen  and  Cloverford. 

rudige;r. 

A  German  poem  translated  by  Robert  Southey  (1774-1843),  and 
given  here  only  as  a  specimen  of  his  ballad  verse,  even  though  it  is 
expended  on  an  essentially  German  theme. 


36o  appen^ij 


THK  BV^  OF  ST.  JOHN. 

Composition  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  The  scene  of  the  tragedy, 
Smaylhome  or  Smallholme  Tower,  is  on  the  northern  boundary  of 
Roxburghshire.  It  lies  so  high  that  it  is  seen  for  "many  a  myle." 
The  battle  of  Ancram  Moor  (1546)  was  ever  famous  in  the  annals  of 
border  warfare. 

BARTHRAM'S  DIRGE. 

Sir  Walter  Scott  says  that  Mr.  Surtees  (the  historian  of  Durham 
County)  took  this  down  from  the  recitation  of  Anne  Douglas,  who 
weeded  in  his  garden.  Her  memory  was  defective,  and  she  could 
only  recall  snatches  of  the  song  which  he  filled  in.  Scott  adds  that 
if  the  reciter  be  correct,  the  hero  of  this  ditty  was  shot  to  death  by 
nine  brothers,  to  avenge  the  wrongs  of  their  sister,  the  lady  with 
the  "ling long  yellow  hair."  According  to  her  wish,  he  was  laid 
near  their  trysting  place  instead  of  in  holy  ground.  The  name 
Barthram  would  argue  a  Northumberland  origin,  but  the  mention 
of  the  Nine-Stane  Bam  and  the  Nine-Stane  Rig  seems  to  refer  to  the 
vicinity  of  the  Hermitage  (scene  of  the  Ballad  of  Lord  Soulis).  The 
style  is  decidedly  Scottish  rather  than  Northumbrian. 

SIR  CAUIvINE. 

Percy  emended  this  ballad  from  a  defective  MS.  in  his  possession. 

There  is  a  curious  version  of  the  same  story  preserved  by  oral  tra^ 
dition  in  the  north  of  Scotland.  Percy  begins  with  "In  Ireland  fai 
over  the  sea."  But  the  superstition  of  the  Kldridge  Knight  is  un- 
known in  Ireland,  and  not  one  of  the  incidents  or  allusions  bear  the 
remotest  affinity  to  Irish  customs,  ancient  or  modem. 

RUTH. 

This  is  given  as  a  specimen  of  Wordsworth's  ballad  poetry. 

ROBIN  HOOD  AND  GUY  OF  GISBORNF. 

This  is  taken  from  Percy  who  acknowledges  that  he  took  some 
liberties  with  it.    There  are  a  gfreat  many  ballads  and  songs  about 


BppenMj  361 


Robin  Hood,  as  he  continued  a  favorite  subject  for  several  centuries. 
It  would  appear  on  consulting  the  several  authorities  that,  about 
the  year  1120,  in  the  reign  of  Richard  II.,  Robin  Hood  vv^as  the  leader 
of  a  famous  band  of  thieves  who  infested  the  forests  of  Yorkshire, 
Cumberland,  and  Nottingham.  He  was  probably  outlawed  for 
slaying  royal  deer.  His  mode  of  selecting  his  associates  was  well 
calculated  to  create  a  stout  army.  "Whersoever  he  heard  of  any 
that  were  of  unusual  streng^th  and  hardiness  he  would  disguise 
himself,  and  rather  than  fayle,  go  lyke  a  beggar  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  them  ;  and  after  he  had  tryed  them  with  fyghting, 
never  give  them  over  tyl  he  had  used  means  to  drawe  (them)  to  lyve 
after  his  fashion."  The  historion  Major  pronounces  him  to  have 
been  "  of  all  theeves  the  most  gentle  theefe."  Ritson  has  collected 
two  volumes  of  ballads  about  his  various  exploits. 

the;  de^ath  and  buriai.  of  robin  hood. 

The  old  chronicles  are  somewhat  circumstantial  in  their  accounts 
of  Robin  Hood.  One  says:  "Being  distempered  with  cowld  and 
age,  he  had  great  payne  in  his  lymmes,  his  bloud  being  corrupted ; 
therefor  to  be  eased  of  his  payne  by  letting  bloud  he  repaired  to  the 
priores  of  Kyrkesly,  which  some  say  was  his  aunt,  a  woman  very 
skylful  in  physique  and  surgery  ;  who  perceyving  him  to  be  Robin 
Hood,  and  waying  how  fel  an  enemy  he  was  to  religious  persons, 
toke  revenge  of  him  for  her  owne  house  and  all  others  by  letting  him 
bleed  to  death." 

SIR  JAMES  THE  ROSE. 

Of  Michael  Bruce,  the  author  of  this  ballad,  very  little  is  known. 
He  was  born  in  Kinnassword,  Scotland,  struggled  his  life  long  with 
poverty,  and  died  of  consumption  in  1767  The  ballad  is  only 
worked  out,  not  original.  Rose  is  an  ancient  and  honorable  name 
in  Scotland.  Johannes  de  Rose  was  a  witness  to  the  famous  charter 
of  Robert  II. 

THE  CIvERKE'S  TWA  SONS  O'  OWSENFORD. 
This  ballad  is  copied  from  the  collection  of  Robert  Chambers  by 
whom  it  is  thus  introduced,    "This  singularly  wild  old  ballad  is 


362  SppenMj 


chiefly  taken  from  the  recitation  of  the  editor's  grandmother,  -^ho 
learned  it  in  her  girlhood  from  a  iMiss  Gray,  resident  at  Neidpath, 
Peebleshire.  Some  additional  stanzas  and  a  few  variations  are 
borrowed  from  a  less  perfect  copy  and  from  a  fragment  called 
'The  Wife  of  Usher's  Well,'  which  is  evidently  the  same  narrative." 

SIR  ANDREW  BARTON. 

Percy  says  this  ballad  appears  to  have  been  written  in  Elizabeth's 
time.  The  story  on  which  this  is  founded  is  briefly  this  :  A  certain 
Scottish  captain.  Barton  by  name,  greatly  worried  the  English 
sailors  and  merchants.  The  Earl  of  Surrj'  could  not  smother  his 
indignation  but  .  .  .  declared  that  while  he  had  an  estate  that 
could  furnish  out  a  ship,  or  a  son  capable  of  commanding  one,  the 
narrow  seas  should  not  be  infested.  Barton  had  the  reputation  of 
being  one  of  the  ablest  sea-captains  of  his  time  in  addition  to  being 
a  pirate.  The  earl's  two  sons,  Sir  Thomas  and  Sir  Edward  Howard, 
put  to  sea  in  command  of  two  ships.  After  much  rough  weather. 
Sir  Thomas  came  up  with  the  Lion,  commanded  by  Barton  in  per- 
son, and  Sir  Edward  came  up  with  the  Union,  Barton's  other  ship. 
The  engagement  that  followed  was  obstinate  on  both  sides  but  the 
Howards  finally  prevailed.  Barton  was  slain  fighting  and  his  two 
Scotch  ships  were  taken  into  the  Thames  (Aug.  2,1511).  The  story  is 
to  be  found  in  most  of  the  English  chronicles  later  than  1511,  but  the 
ballad  is  nearly  a  century  later.  The  designs  illustrating  it  have 
been  made  in  strict  accordance  with  ancient  authorities. 

FRENNET  HALL. 

This  is  copied  from  Herd's  "Collection  of  Ancient  and  Modem 
Scottish  Songs."  It  was  unaccompanied  by  note  or  comment  and 
was  probably  the  work  of  a  modem  pen  founded  on  an  older  ballad 
called  "  The  Fire  of  Frendraught." 

KING  ESTMERE. 

Percy  emended  this  from  the  MS.  He  says  the  original  would 
seem  to  have  been  written  while  part  of  Spain  was  in  the  bands  of 


Bppen^fj  363 


the  Moors,  whose  empire  was  not  fully  extinguished  before  1491, 
He  adds  that  the  treatment  of  the  minstrels  showed  the  high  posi- 
tion they  held  on  their  wanderings,  that  is,  they  were  allowed  to 
mix  in  the  company  of  kings.  All  histories  of  the  North  are  full  of 
the  reverence  paid  to  this  order  of  men.  As  to  Estmere's  riding 
into  the  banquet  hall,  this  was  not  unusual  in  the  days  of  chivalry, 
and  even  to  this  day  we  see  a  relic  of  the  custom  still  kept  up  in  the 
Champion's  riding  into  Westminister  Hall  during  the  coronation 
dinner. 

the;  crue:i,  sister. 

There  are  several  versions  of  this  ballad,  some  one  of  which  is  to 
be  found  in  every  edition  of  Scotch  ballads.  This  was  composed  by 
Sir  Walter  Scott  from  a  copy  in  Mrs.  Brown's  MS.  intermixed  with 
a  fragment.  There  can  be  little  doubt  that  this  ballad  may  be 
classed  among  the  compositions  founded  upon  actual  occurrences. 

FAIR  he;le;n  of  KIRCONN^I^I,. 

Sir  Walter  Scott  gives  this  from  the  most  accurate  copy  that  he 
could  find.  The  sad  catastrophe  (date  uncertain)  upon  which  this 
ballad  is  founded  is  briefly  this :  A  lady  by  the  name  of  Helen 
Irving  or  Bell  (it  is  a  disputed  point  between  two  clans),  beautiful 
daughter  of  the  l^aird  of  Kirconnell,  in  Dumfriesshire,  was  wooed 
by  two  gentlemen.  The  favored  lover  was  Adam  Fleming  of  Kirk- 
patrick.  The  name  of  the  second  is  lost,  though  it  has  been  alleged 
that  he  was  a  Bell  of  Blacket  House.  The  latter  was  encouraged  by 
the  family,  and  the  lovers  were  obliged  to  meet  secretly  in  the 
churchyard  of  Kirconnell,  which  is  nearly  surrounded  by  the  river 
Kirtle.  During  one  of  these  interviews  the  other  suitor  appeared 
on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  river  and  aimed  his  carbine  at  the  breast 
of  his  favored  rival.  Helen  threw  herself  before  her  lover,  received 
the  bullet  and  died.  A  combat  ensued  in  which  the  murderer  was 
slain.  Another  account  makes  Fleming  pursue  the  other  to  Spain, 
where  he  killed  him,  and  then  returned  to  Helen's  grave  where  he 
died.  Their  grave  is  still  pointed  out  in  Kirconnell  churchyard. 
"  Hie  jacet  Adamus  Fleming." 


364  SppcnDij 


THE  I.UCK  01?  EDEN  HAXI.. 

This  ballad,  the  composition  of  Mr.  J.  H.  Niffen,  is  founded  on  a 
superstition  in  Cumberland.  There  is  a  small  village  there,  Eden 
Hall,  situated  on  the  Eden  River.  The  mansion  and  estates  belong 
to  the  Iklusgraves,  who  have  held  property  there  since  the  time  of 
Henry  VI.  and  -were  distinguished  in  the  reign  of  William  the 
Conqueror,  with  whom  they  came  over  from  Xonnandy. 

In  the  mansion  an  old  drinking-cup,  enamelled  in  colors,  is  pre- 
served with  the  greatest  care.  It  is  called  "  The  Luck  of  Eden  Hall " 
and  bears  the  letters  I.  H.  S.  on  the  side,  which  mark  its  origin, 
but  tradition  aflBrms  it  was  seized  from  a  company  of  fairies  who 
were  spxorting  near  a  spring  called  St.  Cuthbert's  well.  They  made 
an  ineffectual  struggle  to  recover  it,  and  then  vanished  into  thin  air, 
sajdng: 

"  If  that  glass  do  break  or  fall 
Farewell  the  luck  of  Eden  Hall." 

IvADY  ANNE  BOTHWELL'S  LAMENT. 

This  is  taken  from  "Scottish  Ballads,"  edited  by  Chambers. 
Percy  gives  a  shorter  version  and  says  that  he  once  thought  the 
subject  of  this  pathetic  ballad  might  relate  to  the  Earl  of  Bothwell, 
and  the  desertion  of  his  wife.  Lady  Jean  Gordon,  to  make  room  for 
his  marriage  with  Mary ;  but  he  now  believes  this  opinion  to  be 
groundless.  A  young  lady  by  the  name  of  Bothwell,  having  been, 
together  with  her  child,  deserted  by  her  husband  or  lover,  composed 
these  lines  herself. 

AULD  ROBIN  GRAY. 

The  history  of  the  author  and  poem  is  briefly  as  follows  :  Lady 
Ann  Lindsay  (1750-1825)  was  the  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Balcarres 
and  became  the  wife  of  Sir  Andrew  Barton,  librarian  to  George  III. 
The  song  was  written  before  her  marriage.  She  was  verj'  fond  of 
an  ancient  Scotch  melody  called  "The  bridegroom  grat  when  the 
sun  gaed  down."  The  air  was  sung  to  her  by  an  aged  person,  with 
old,  rather  free-spoken  words.    At  a  time  when  Lady  Ann  was  feeling 


Bppen&ij  365 


rather  melancholy  after  the  marriage  of  a  sister,  she  sought  to  amuse 
herself  with  poetry.  "I  longed  to  sing  old  Sophy's  air,"  as  she 
afterwards  wrote  to  Sir  Walter  Scott,  "  to  different  words  and  give 
its  plaintive  tones  some  little  history  of  virtuous  distress  in  humble 
life,  such  as  might  suit  it."  So  she  created  a  heroine,  sent  her 
Jamie  to  sea,  broke  her  father's  arm,  made  her  mother  fall  sick, 
and  gave  her  Auld  Robin  Gray  (a  herd  at  Balcarres),  for  a  lover. 
She  wished  to  load  the  poor  maiden  with  a  fifth  sorrow  and  called 
to  her  little  sister  to  help  her.  "  Steal  the  cow,  sister  Ann,"  which 
was  done  and  the  story  finished. 

The  song  became  popular  immediately.  Its  authorship  was 
attributed  to  ever  so  many  people,  from  David  Rizzio  down.  In 
process  of  time  a  new  air  was  written,  by  a  Mr.  I,eeves,  to  the  words. 
It  found  its  way  to  the  stage,  where  it  has  been  occasionally  sung  ever 
since.  Finally,  in  1S23,  t,ady  Ann  acknowledged  to  Sir  Walter  Scott 
that  she  was  the  author  and  sent  him  the  two  continuations  which 
she  had  written  long  after  the  song  itself. 

EI.FINI,AND   WUD. 

This  is  the  composition  of  Mr.  William  Motherwell,  written  in 
imitation  of  the  old  style. 

THE  TWA  CORBIES. 

Of  the  several  versions  of  this  singular  fragment  the  one  from 
"Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border  "  is  here  given.  It  was  communi- 
cated to  the  Editor  by  C.  K.  Sharpe,  "  as  written  down  from  tradition 
by  a  lady." 

THE  BAI.I,AD  OF  HENGIST  AND  MEY. 

This  is  given  by  William  Julian  Mickle.  It  professes  to  be  an  imi- 
tation of  the  ancient  ballad,  the  character  of  which,  however,  it 
partakes  but  little.  The  author  was  born,  1734,  at  Langholme,  in 
Dumfriesshire,  and  died  in  1782  in  Oxfordshire.  It  is  conjectured 
that  he  was  the  author  of  "  There  's  nae  luck  about  the  house." 

The  incident  on  which  this  ballad  is  founded  is  presumed  to  have 
grown  out  of  the  wars  between  the  Britons  and  the  Saxons. 


GLOSSARY. 


ActoUj  a  leather  jacket,  strongly 

stuffed,  worn  under  a  coat  of 

mail. 
Arblast,  a  cross-bow. 
Barmkin,  a  rampart. 
Bartizan,  a  battlement. 
Bewray,  to  reveal. 
Bigged,  built. 
Bigly,  pleasant,  delightful. 
Birk,  .s.  birch  ;  v.  to  give  a  tart 

reply. 
Bowne,   a.  ready ;  v.   to   make 

ready. 
Brae,  brow  or  side  of  a  hill. 
Brand,  sword. 
Bryttled,  made  brittle. 
Busk,  to  dress,  to  make  ready. 
Capull,  a  horse  or  mare. 
Carle,  a  man  (churl). 
Cryance,  belief. 
Dill,  to  still,  to  calm. 
Dowie,  dull,  mournful. 
Dule,  grief. 

Farden,  fared,  flashed. 
Feid,  enmity. 
Felawe,  companion. 
Fere,  fear,  companion. 
Fet,  fetched. 

Fetteled,  tied  up,  put  in  order. 
Fitt,  diversion  of  a  song. 
Gair^  geer,  dress. 
Galliards,  a  dance. 


Gared,  made,  caused. 

Giffe,  if. 

Gil,  child,  knight. 

Gin,  if. 

Gorgett,  neck-dress. 

Greit,  greet,  cry. 

Grype,  griffin. 

Gurley,  bleak,  stormy. 

Hachborde,  hatch-board. 

Hartely,  heartily. 

Hewberke,  a  shirt  of  mail. 

Holt,  groves,  woods,  hills. 

Hone,  delay. 

Kouzle,  to  administer  the  sacra- 
ment. 

In-fere,  in  company,  together. 

Kell,  hinder  part  of  a  woman's 
cap. 

Kemp,  soldier. 

Keniperye,  soldier. 

Kempion,  champion. 

Kend,  known 

Kevils,  lots. 

I<ap,  leapt. 

I^ave,  remainder. 

Learj  .y.  liar  ;  a.  rather,  liefer. 

lycmis,  gleams,  scintillates. 

Lincome,  of  I^incoln  (as  Mncoln 
cloth). 

I^ing,  .y.  a  species  of  grass ;  s.  a 
line ;  v.  to  move  with  long 
steps. 


367 


OF  THK 


368 


<5lO06ari2 


I/X)t,  pret.  of  v.  to  let. 

Ix>sel,  a  worthless  fellow. 

Louted,  bowed. 

Marrow,  a  companion,  one  of  a 

pair,  an  equal. 
May.  maid. 
Mazer    dish,    saucer    under    a 

cup  (?) 
Merkle,  much. 
Paynim,  pagan. 
Pibroch,  a  Highland  air. 
Quat,  what. 

Rede,  .y.  remedy  ;  v.  advdse. 
Renisht,  perhaps   a   derivative 

from  renitio,  to  shine. 
Shent,  disgraced. 
Sichs,  sighs. 
Skaith,  harm. 
Skeely,  skilful,  intelligent. 


Skrieh,  peep,  dawn. 

Spae-book,  a  book  of  necro- 
mancy. 

Speir,  ask,  inquire. 

Soldan,  sultan. 

Steven,  voice,  time. 

Stint,  stayed,  stopped. 

Strathspey,  a  dance. 

St5i:he,  .s.  place,  station  ;  a.  firm, 
steady, 

Sweven,  dream. 

Tercel-gents,  trained  falcons. 

Tint,  lost. 

Triest  furth,  draw  forth. 

Warwolf,  half  man  and  half 
wolf. 

Waesome,  woful. 

Weet,  know,  understand. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY, 
BERKELEY 


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